THE 

SIEGE  OF 
YOUTH 


FRANCES 
CHARLES 


The  Siege  of  Youth 


The  Siege  of  Youth 


By 
FRANCES    CHARLES 

•  ( 

AUTHOR  OF  "!N  THE  COUNTRY  GOD  FORGOT'* 


Illustrated  by 
HARRY    E.    TOWNSEND 


BOSTON 

LITTLE,  BROWN,  &    COMPANY 
1903 


Copyright, 
BY  LITTLE,  BROWN,  AND  COMPANY. 

All  rights  reserved 


Published  May,  1903 


UNIVERSITY    PRESS    •    JOHN    WILSON 
AND     SON     •     CAMBRIDGE,    V.  8.  A. 


TO 
MY   BROTHER    HERBERT 

IN    BELIEF    AND    HOPE 


662736 


CONTENTS 

PACK 

I.  ABOUT  A  FACE i 

II.  A  MIDDLEMAN  OF  ART 13 

III.  JULIAN 27 

IV.  THE  TERRACE 33 

V.  THE  OWNER  OF  THE  FACE  ....  41 

VI.  A  POINT  OF  VIEW 46 

VII.  HALF-GODS 55 

VIII.  ABOUT  THE  MIRROR  OF  THE  HEART  .  65 

IX.  WHERE  LOVE  is  SENT 80 

X.  STRAY  THOUGHTS 93 

XI.  SUNDAY 97 

XII.  REPARATION 107 

XIII.  ON  TRUTH 109 

XIV.  ON  THE  APOTHEOSIS  OF  EXISTENCE   .  119 
XV.  DEBORAH'S  LIFE 123 

XVI.  AND  WHAT  IT  MEANT 136 

XVII.  THE  TURN  OF  THE  TIDE     ....  146 

XVIII.  A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCIES     ....  153 

XIX.  REAPING  THE  WHIRLWIND   ....  163 

XX.  WHAT  THE  SUMMER  BROUGHT      .     .  172 

XXL  THE  RIFT 183 

vii 


Contents 

PAGE 

XXII.    THE  MORN 196 

XXIII.  IN  THE  ALPHABET  OF  LOVE  .     .     .  206 

XXIV.  WHAT  THE  TERRACE  THOUGHT      .  211 
XXV.    FRIENDS 218 

XXVI.    His  LIFE 233 

XXVII.    FATUM 241 

XXVIII.    HOME 250 

XXIX.    HARVEST-HOME 264 

XXX.    WHEN  THE  GODS  ARRIVE  ....  274 

XXXI.    NOT  ON  THE  HOSPITAL  STAFF    .     .  285 


Vlll 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

"  '  Give  me  my  sketch,'  he  cried  "     .      .      .      .     Frontispiece 
*<  Instinctively  Jameson  raised  his  hat "     .      .      .        Page     44 

"  Ludwiga  remained   at   the   small  piano,  which 

made  a  quaint  framework  for  her"     ...          «•      226 

"  *  You  see  Suada,   the  real  Suada,   is  my  wife,' 

he  said" "261 

"  The  girl  lay  on  her  bed,  and  the  man  sat  with 

his  hand  on  her  pillow,  as  if  afraid  to  stir"          "     292 


The  Siege  of  Youth 


i 

ABOUT   A   FACE 

"TT7HY   did   Julian    refuse    the    offer?" 

^y^y      Jameson  asked  the  Art  Editor. 

New  forces  entered  Lewis  Jame- 
son's life  after  this  question.  He  had  lived  a 
great  many  years,  but  it  had  not  been  conscious 
living.  He  had  been  a  young  man  who  worked 
for  his  daily  bread  and  incidentally  for  leadership. 

Both  occupations  had  kept  him  pretty  busy 
until  this  December  afternoon.  Then,  as  Alfons 
Strong  might  have  put  it,  the  "  i "  in  existence 
became  dotted ;  but  Alfons  Strong  was  an  idler 
and  his  speeches  were  not  necessarily  golden  ones 
of  wisdom. 

"Why  did  Julian  refuse  the  offer?"  Jameson 
again  asked  the  Art  Editor. 

The  Art  Editor's  reply  was  characteristic  al- 
though enigmatical. 

"  Woman  is  the  root  of  all  evil,"  he  remarked, 
crossing  one  leg  over  the  other  and  looking  up. 

Jameson  stood  just  where  the  light  fell  on  his 
eyes.  They  had  become  quiet  eyes  from  the 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

way  in  which  he  accepted  life  on  this  planet. 
First  he  had  discovered  that  bread  was  a  neces- 
sity, as  I  have  told  you,  and  then  that  leadership 
was  a  luxury ;  so  every  day  had  meant  food  in  a 
measure,  and  he  was  yet  far  from  satisfied. 

He  was  a  tall  man,  with  a  quiet  expression,  a 
rather  ordinary  complexion,  and  copper-colored 
hair,  which  last  was  the  only  warm  effect  about 
him. 

"  Oh,  if  you  want  to  be  evasive  or  cynical  about 
it,"  he  said  to  the  Art  Editor  now,  "  it  is  a  fine 
opportunity  to  air  your  wits,  I  suppose,  but  I  am 
not  in  a  particularly  appreciative  humor." 

"  I  am  neither  cynical  nor  evasive,"  the  Art 
Editor  responded.  "In  fact,  I  am  worldly  wise 
at  a  great  risk,  considering  my  condition.  It  is 
never  safe  for  a  married  man  to  air  his  wits  in 
this  way,  however  great  the  glory.  The  only 
loophole  I  could  find,  if  detected  by  my  family, 
would  be  that  the  remark  is  solely  personal  to 
Julian." 

"  I  don't  believe  Julian  is  local  in  his  worship 
of  the  fair  sex,"  Jameson  replied,  not  taking  the 
view  very  seriously,  but  allowing  a  certain  amount 
of  truth  to  enter  these  superficial  opinions.  cc  He 
falls  in  love  so  regularly  that  I  have  ceased  to 
worry  very  much  about  it.  It  is  some  girl  in 
the  street-car  now,  this  evening  a  soprano  at  the 
opera,  and  the  next  morning  some  pretty  maiden 

2 


About  a  Face 

who  has  chanced  under  a  becoming  light  during 
morning  worship.  Women  are  not  individuals 
with  Julian  so  much  as  a  part  of  his  education, 
and  curls  and  lines  and  ankles  are  the  same  here 
as  in  Liverpool  or  Vermont.*' 

The  Art  Editor  sat  still,  as  if  he  were  thinking 
it  over. 

"  There  would  be  a  discussion  in  that,"  said 
Jameson,  "  if  one  were  not  too  hungry.  I  am 
sorry  it  is  so  near  dinner-time.  I  have  a  theory 
that  every  artist  needs  two  women  in  his  life,  and 
that  he  will  marry  one  of  them.  First,  there  is  the 
woman  who  creates  the  physical  ideal  for  him,  and 
then  the  woman  who  puts  a  spirit  into  his  fancy. 
The  real  artist  needs  both,  but  half  of  us  stop  at 
some  marble  Venus,  and  that  is  the  end  of  us." 

Jameson  hesitated.  Then  he  continued,  speak- 
ing naturally,  but  the  brief  pause  had  lent  some 
personal  interest  to  his  next  statement.  He  was 
not  aware  of  this,  but  the  Art  Editor  was  inter- 
ested in  it,  as  it  gave  a  glimpse  into  the  inner  life 
of  this  fellow-worker.  No  one  knew  anything 
about  Jameson  except  that  he  worked  in  a  life 
and  death  way,  and  had  no  family. 

"  Julian  has  passed  the  stage  of  the  physical 
woman,  I  think,"  said  Jameson.  "  He  used  to 
draw  dogs  and  cats  and  babies  in  an  utterly 
impartial  way  until  he  met  a  splendid  human 
animal  one  night,  and  he  has  never  done  any- 

3 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

thing  but  women  since  then.  She  was  a  curse 
to  every  young  fellow  she  came  across,  and  I 
think  he  would  have  been  in  love  with  her  also 
in  the  same  mad  way  the  rest  of  us  were." 

"  How  did  you  prevent  it?"  the  Art  Editor 
asked. 

Jameson  smiled,  a  funny,  slow  little  smile, 
whose  mirth  involved  himself,  and  himself  only. 
It  is  not  particularly  wholesome  to  confine  all 
our  merriment  to  ourselves. 

"  I  rescued  Julian,"  he  replied.  "  She  was 
like  a  burning  brand.  There  was  n't  anything 
to  do  but  —  but  snatch  her  before  she  ruined 
him,  as  she  had  not  hesitated  to  ruin  others. 
He  was  very  young.  He  sulked  for  three  days, 
would  n't  eat  or  sleep,  and  otherwise  refused  to 
be  comforted.  Then  he  got  back  to  beefsteaks 
and  beds  again,  and  has  done  better  work  on 
the  paper  ever  since." 

"  What  became  of  the  brand  ? "  asked  the 
Editor,  looking  at  him. 

Jameson's  color  did  not  vary.  He  looked  the 
man  squarely  in  the  face,  and  said  in  his  own 
peculiar  fashion :  — 

"  Actually  to  snatch  a  brand  and  crush  its 
flame  and  prevent  any  further  evil  from  it,  is 
one  thing ;  but  there  is  a  psychological  responsi- 
bility in  the  metaphor  that  you  are  too  hungry 
to  hear  developed." 


About  a  Face 

He  smiled  again,  then  he  said  in  plain,  direct, 
rather  lonely  English,  — 

u  The  woman   has  remained  in  my   own  life 


ever  since." 


The  Art  Editor  turned  the  subject  tactfully. 

"  If  all  this  is  true,  then  I  think  Julian  has  met 
his  Waterloo  at  last,"  he  said. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  asked  Jameson. 

"  That  he  has  met  the  other  woman,"  the  Art 
Editor  replied. 

"  Impossible  !  "  Jameson  cried,  when  he  under- 
stood. This  meant  a  great  deal  to  him,  and  he 
ended  by  springing  to  his  feet.  There  were  two 
things  that  he  did  not  like  about  it,  —  the  woman, 
and  his  ignorance  of  her. 

The  facts  were  too  much  for  him,  however.  His 
own  mental  processes  lent  force  to  them,  and  he 
began  to  see  the  truth.  Even  then  he  did  not 
accept  it  willingly.  He  crossed  over  and  stood 
by  the  office  window,  tall,  erect,  but  trembling. 

The  Art  Editor  watched  him  with  amusement. 
He  experienced  a  keen  enjoyment  in  this  little 
tempest,  for  affairs  had  been  dull  of  late,  in  the 
office.  Jameson's  eyes  were  dimmed  with  anger. 
He  looked  out,  but  was  unable  to  discern  any- 
thing. The  building  in  which  they  were  standing 
was  a  very  high  one,  and  all  at  once  some  smoke 
from  a  roof  beneath  them  curled  across  his  range 
of  vision.  It  made  a  dark  line  against  the  gray 

5 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

horizon,  and  somehow  helped  to  concentrate  his 
anger,  so  his  irritation  worked  into  speech  again. 

"  It  is  impossible,  preposterous  !  " 

"  There  is  undoubtedly  a  woman  in  it,"  the 
Art  Editor  repeated.  He  knew  Jameson  very 
well,  and  could  afford  to  take  liberties  with  him, 
could  afford  to  make  him  angry,  yet  could  stand 
up  against  the  anger.  He  felt  that  he  had  noth- 
ing to  fear  from  its  consequences.  Again,  for 
his  part,  he  did  not  see  the  tragical  side  of  this 
love  affair,  even  after  Jameson's  confession.  He 
was  very  happily  married  himself,  and  had  a 
rather  domestic  opinion  of  his  wife  and  the  sex 
generally.  To  him,  women  were  only  orna- 
ments along  the  pathway  of  life,  not  in  it  at 
all. 

"  What  woman  ?  "  Jameson  asked,  all  at  once. 

The  Art  Editor  continued  as  if  he  enjoyed  it. 
"  I  am  not  a  fortune-teller,"  he  replied.  "  You  '11 
have  to  go  to  some  one  else  for  the  information. 
To  tell  the  truth,  I  think  you  ought  to  be  in  a 
fair  way  to  know  that  yourself.  I  merely  know 
what  I  know.  We  gather  facts  from  various 
sources,  many  from  experience,  but  more  from 
our  intuitions.  Since  you  brought  Julian  to  me, 
several  years  ago,  I  Ve  done  the  best  I  could  for 
him,  — thrown  everything  his  way.  Some  of  the 
other  fellows  think  I  Ve  thrown  too  much,  but 
that  is  my  own  affair.  At  first,  it  was  because 

6 


About  a  Face 

of  you,  then  because  of  the  boy  himself,  for  I 
like  him.  In  all  the  time  I  have  known  him,  he 
has  been  angry  with  me  but  once,  and  then  it 
was  the  kind  of  anger  which  a  girl  and  a  kiss 
might  have  squared  at  once ;  but  I  happened  to 
be  neither  girl  nor  kiss,  so  had  to  wait  for  my 
forgiveness  until  this  fair  Unknown  pressed  the 
proper  button.  It  was  restoring  harmony  vicari- 
ously, as  it  were." 

"  Great  Heavens,  man,"  blurted  Jameson, "  I  Ve 
been  living  with  him  night  and  day  ! " 

"  Nevertheless,"  the  Art  Editor  responded, 
with  the  same  oracular  enjoyment  (intensified 
indeed  by  his  very  natural  pleasure  in  having 
announced  the  discovery),  "  what  I  say  is  true  ; 
there  is  a  woman  in  it." 

He  suddenly  fell  into  silent  laughter,  then 
seeing  that  Jameson  had  not  observed  it,  could 
not  resist  throwing  this  at  the  young  fellow,  and 
enjoying  his  puzzled  face  :  — 

"  I  am  in  dead  earnest,  Jameson  ;  I  can  almost 
describe  her,  if  you  wish.  She  is  young,  she  has 
neither  fair  hair  nor  blue  eyes,  I  should  fancy. 
She  is  a  contradiction.  She  has  a  patient  mouth 
and  a  cynical  smile  ;  her  virtues  are  endless.  By 
turns  she  is  proud,  grave,  flirtatious,  with  an 
under  stratum  always  of  goodness.  She  runs 
the  feminine  gamut  from  c  Mary  the  First '  to 
f  Priscilla  the  Puritan  Maiden,'  with  a  touch  of 

7 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

royalty  occasionally  thrown  in  like  a  decorative 
color.  At  times,  she  is  a  realization  of  all  the 
Madonnas.  There  is  one  thing  I  have  seen, 
however,  and  this  might  impart  some  feeble  ray 
of  hope  to  you ;  I  do  not  think  that  she  is  in 
love  with  Julian  so  far,  and  I  fancy  he  is  pretty 
far  gone." 

"  You  have  seen  her  then  ? "  Jameson  asked, 
ignoring  the  folly. 

"  No,  merely  her  picture,"  the  Art  Editor 
returned,  with  mock  resignation.  "In  fact,  every 
Sunday  issue  which-  we  have  gotten  out  lately  that 
has  had  any  of  Julian's  work  in  it,  has  had  some 
phase  of  her  too.  It  has  been  a  sort  of  puzzle, 
and  he  has  not  even  asked  us  to  pay  for  it.  The 
Sunday  readers  must  be  quite  familiar  with  her, 
and  be  able  to  pick  her  out  in  a  crowd,  by  now." 
He  gave  another  sly  glance  at  the  quiet  figure, 
saw  that  he  had  gone  far  enough  with  his  non- 
sense, and  retreated. 

"  Don't  be  too  desperately  intense,  old  fellow. 
I  can  understand  how  you  feel  in  a  measure,  but 
these  things  are  inevitable  with  young  blood. 
Julian  had  a  fine  career  before  him,  only  yester- 
day, and  there  is  no  reason  why  love,  or  even 
marriage,  should  destroy  this  as  utterly  as  you 
think.  Give  him  a  little  time.  Let  him  have 
the  girl  if  he  wants  her,  and  in  a  year  or  two, 
most  likely,  the  surface  will  be  as  clear  and 

8 


About  a  Face 

unruffled  as  if  Fate  had  not  thrown  her  little 
stone." 

Jameson  made  a  gesture  of  dissent,  almost  as 
if  he  were  suffering.  "  Don't.  Julian  is  not  that 
kind,"  he  said;  "besides  this,  I  took  him  from 
his  mother." 

"  We  all  leave  our  mothers,  sooner  or  later," 
the  Art  Editor  put  in. 

"  He  was  all  she  had,"  answered  Jameson.  He 
put  a  loneliness  in  it  that  the  other  man  did  not 
think  him  capable  of  feeling.  He  knew  Jameson 
was  in  some  measure  Julian's  sponsor,  but  he  did 
not  know  how  far  the  responsibility  went,  nor  just 
what  head  it  came  under,  yet  just  at  that  moment 
he  had  an  idea  that  it  was  a  romance,  and  remotely 
concerned  Mrs.  Joy,  Julian's  mother,  whom  he 
understood  to  be  a  widow.  He  thought  that 
maybe  Jameson's  interest  in  the  boy  was  due 
to  his  tender  attachment  for  the  mother.  He 
had  never  seen  Mrs.  Joy,  or  the  whole  affair 
would  have  had  a  more  laughable  aspect  than 
ever  to  him.  She  was  fifty  or  thereabouts,  and 
would  have  been  most  at  ease  holding  telephonic 
communication  with  her  son's  friend. 

"  Well,  any  way,  my  dear  fellow,  you  have  done 
all  you  could  do.  You  secured  for  him  this  splen- 
did opening.  Whatever  feeling  you  may  have 
about  this,  She  "  (he  was  so  impressed  with  the 
idea  of  a  romance  that  he  thought  of  the  word 

9 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

with  a  capital  S)  — "  She  cannot  but  feel  im- 
mensely grateful.  There's  not  another  fellow 
on  the  paper  but  would  jump  at  such  an  opening 
as  the  c  Satire'  offers.  It's  simply  splendid." 

"  I  have  been  six  years  trying  to  get  it  for  him," 
Jameson  broke  in.  There  was  a  heart-sickness 
in  the  utterance.  He  had  striven  to  do  Julian  a 
kindness,  and  it  had  not  been  appreciated.  Lack 
of  appreciation  throws  us,  rather  violently,  back  on 
ourselves. 

"  I  should  not  look  at  it  in  that  light,"  urged  the 
Editor,  in  his  kindliest  tones.  "  He  did  not  give 
me  any  reason  for  declining,  so  that  is  why  I  think 
it  is  a  woman.  His  refusal  is  ingratitude  to  you, 
perhaps,  but  of  a  forgivable  nature.  After  a  fel- 
low 's  been  married  a  year  or  two  the  world  be- 
comes the  same  place  to  him ;  but  say  what  we 
will,  there  is  a  time  in  our  earlier  history  when 
everything  is  desperately  different  to  lovers. 
That  —  see  —  is  just  what  is  the  matter  with 
Julian,  I  fancy,  —  he's  in  love.  Some  ordinary 
little  mortal  has  pulled  down  the  marble  goddess 
and  mounted  insolently  to  her  place.  He'll  get 
over  it  in  time." 

"  What  were  his  exact  words  in  refusing  ?  " 
asked  Jameson,  after  a  little. 

The  Art  Editor  smiled  again.  He  was  in  a 
gay,  good  humour  that  evening,  and  the  whole 
Affair  afforded  him  a  good  deal  of  amusement, 

JQ 


About  a  Face 

Indeed,  he  had  thought  it  merely  amusing,  until 
Jameson's  reception  of  his  news  added  to  it  some- 
thing rather  dramatic ;  but  even  yet,  he  had  not 
grasped  the  necessity  for  such  seriousness  on  the 
part  of  the  younger  man. 

The  whole  matter  summed  up  amounted  to 
this :  A  flourishing  Eastern  journal  had  asked 
for  this  youth  of  theirs.  The  paper  spoke  for 
itself,  apart  from  the  monetary  consideration. 
As  the  Art  Editor  had  said  earlier  in  the  evening, 
"  Every  one  knew  what  the  c  Satire '  was." 
There  was  not  a  man  in  the  whole  department 
that  would  not  jump  at  such  an  opportunity ; 
yet  this  lovable  young  genius  of  theirs  had 
merely  said  in  his  vexed  boyish  fashion,  while 
a  cloud  troubled  his  brow  for  a  passing  moment, 
"  Why  do  they  send  out  here  for  an  artist, 
when  they  must  have  plenty  of  good  fellows  at 
home  ?  " 

When  Jameson  heard  that,  he  prepared  to  go 
home.  He  did  not  care  to  entertain  any  bitter- 
ness in  his  feeling  toward  the  boy.  He  loved 
Julian,  and  they  had  been  friends  for  six  or  seven 
years,  —  intimate,  lenient  friends,  —  and  before 
that  they  had  been  friends  also,  as  we  use  the 
word  before  we  are  wholly  educated.  In  other 
words  they  had  roomed  together,  lounged  over 
their  pipes  for  hours  with  all  manner  of  opinions 
curling  into  the  smoke  ;  and  then  there  had  come. 

ii 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

a  time  when  they  hardly  seemed  two  people,  each 
was  so  used  to  the  other's  being  around. 

Jameson  found  his  hat  and  put  it  on  as  near 
parallel  to  his  mood  as  he  could.  The  Art  Ed- 
itor recognized  the  slant,  but  did  not  know  how 
to  sympathize  with  it,  so  he  sat  looking  at  Jame- 
son's hands,  which  were  resting  on  his  desk,  and 
were  rather  tense,  as  if  he  were  enduring  some- 
thing. 

"  I  have  tried  so  hard  to  make  something  good 
out  of  Julian,"  Jameson  said.  "  I  owed  it  to  his 
father  to  do  it,  but  it  has  been  somewhat  of  a 
pull  at  times.  It  has  interrupted  my  own  career, 
it  has  forced  me  into  the  society  of  uncongenial 
people ;  yet  it  has  been  my  development  as  well 
as  his.  We  have  lately  moved  into  a  sort  of 
Latin  Quarter  to  please  him.  The  idea  was  mine, 
and  sprang  from  a  desire  to  escape  social  invasion, 
but  the  location  was  his.  I  do  not  know  why  he 
chose  it,  nor  did  I  think  to  ask,  as  it  seemed  a 
self-evident  fact  that  it  was  to  study  types.  I 
suppose  he  has  been  such  a  fool  as  to  lose  the 
marble  goddess  there." 

This  seemed  final,  so  the  Art  Editor  did  not 
respond. 


12 


II 

A    MIDDLEMAN    OF   ART 

JAMESON  went  slowly  down  the  steps  of 
the  Journal  building.  It  was  an  old  place 
with  discolored  plaster  and  narrow  halls,  but 
he  had  not  observed  the  conditions  before,  as, 
prior  to  this,  they  had  not  seemed  to  him  un- 
suitable accompaniments  of  fame.  Art  had  been 
his  goddess,  and  the  environment  of  his  worship 
had  become  exalted.  It  had  seemed  like  a  temple 
until  to-day. 

Religion,  God-worship,  is  the  only  thought 
built  on  a  strong  spiritual  foundation.  If  God 
did  not  exist,  as  old  Voltaire  said,  we  would  have 
to  invent  him,  because  the  need  for  what  God 
represents  to  us  is  so  great ;  but  there  is  no 
graven  image  that  can  attain  the  security,  the 
strength  held  by  this  divine  fancy.  There  is 
nothing  in  life  or  on  earth  powerful  enough  to 
remain  on  a  clay  pedestal.  We,  ourselves,  grow 
taller  with  time,  more  equal  to  judge  the  false 
god  we  have  created,  or  time  and  circumstances 
jog  it.  Then  it  topples  to  our  feet. 

Jameson  had  worshipped  art,  but  the  altar 
had  been  desecrated;  and  this  afternoon  he  had 

13 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

looked  down  at  the  broken  pieces  of  his  idol. 
"  Some  ordinary  little  mortal  had  torn  down  the 
marble  goddess  and  had  mounted  insolently  to 
her  place." 

After  a  lifetime  of  concentration,  of  absorption, 
of  illusion  in  one  false  line  of  thinking,  it  hurts 
to  awaken.  For  the  first  time  a  fear  came  to 
Jameson,  a  realization  of  every  one's  impotence  in 
the  hands  of  God,  of  Fate.  Something  had  of  a 
sudden  happened,  which  he  could  not  under- 
stand, over  which  he  had  no  control.  Something 
had  interrupted  human  motive,  and  personal  suc- 
cess seemed  less  positive,  less  possible  in  that 
moment  than  ever  before. 

When  he  reached  the  street,  objects  separated 
themselves  in  an  unusual  way.  Before  this 
evening,  he  had  walked,  but  without  observing 
surroundings,  shops,  people,  children,  streets. 
He  had  been  a  part  of  thought  more  than  he  had 
been  a  panting,  struggling  factor  of  this  world. 
It  had  been  as  if  he  were  being  swept  onward, 
ever  onward,  along  with  great  forces  toward  a 
goal. 

All  at  once  the  great  stream  seemed  to  be 
rushing  on  without  him,  and  he  lay  wondering 
on  the  shore  ;  and  not  only  wondering,  but  feeling 
rather  insignificant  also. 

His  point  of  view  had  become  more  common- 
place. He  was  more  a  resident  of  San  Francisco 


A  Middleman  of  Art 

than  he  had  been  for  years,  because  ever  since  he 
was  a  boy  at  college,  he  had  lived  more  or  less  in 
the  clouds,  thinking  of  what  he  was  to  become, 
not  realizing  what  he  was  at  the  moment. 

The  streets  became  streets  to  him,  as  he  walked. 
Formerly,  they  had  been  merely  a  roadway  be- 
tween his  office  and  his  bedroom,  with  Julian's 
growing  body  to  suggest  that  both  of  them  eat 
three  meals  a  day,  just  to  keep  things  going. 

Having  had  Julian  for  a  companion  meant  eat- 
ing three  meals  a  day  and  expressing  a  great 
many  thoughts  that  otherwise  would  have  re- 
mained unspoken ;  and  finding  later  that  Julian 
had  absorbed  the  food  together  with  Jameson's 
thoughts,  and  was  on  the  whole  a  very  successful 
person. 

Jameson  strode  on,  thinking  of  all  this.  It  is 
not  a  bad  time  to  introduce  him  more  fully  to 
you.  He  was  harmonious  to  the  half-lights  of 
the  closing  day. 

It  was  winter  in  San  Francisco,  —  not  the  pic- 
turesque winter  of  the  North  or  South,  but  a  mild 
and  intermediate  season,  as  if  the  great  zones  had 
touched  hands,  and  earth  were  glad  of  the  friendly 
feeling.  There  is  no  breath  from  a  cold  Atlantic 
to  chill  the  ardor  of  these  thoughts.  Our  great 
tranquil  ocean  lies  in  majesty  to  the  west.  It  can 
fume  and  fret,  but  it  does  so  in  reason.  It  does, 
not  lash  and  storm  in  vain. 

15 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

We,  on  the  San  Francisco  shores,  grow  a  bit 
negligent  of  seasons.  It  is  a  compensation  for 
many  ills  to  awaken  some  December  morning 
and  feel  in  the  air  the  warmth  of  summer  and  see 
in  the  foliage  the  glad  green  of  spring.  Children 
play  in  the  parks,  and  the  sun  shines,  and  even 
the  older  folks  grow  merry.  It  is  good  to  feel 
the  sunshine  when  it  is  not  on  the  programme,  and 
San  Francisco  provides  many  such  days  in  the 
midst  of  the  rainy  season.  This  was  a  fair  sample 
of  such  weather.  It  had  been  such  a  day  as 
comes  during  Indian  Summer  in  other  countries. 
The  air  had  been  very  kindly,  and  had  breathed 
nothing  but  gentleness  toward  man  and  vegeta- 
tion. Toward  February  people  would  be  out 
searching  for  wild  flowers  on  the  suburban  hills. 

Jameson  was  not  a  nature-lover  all  at  once. 
He  took  no  deep  pleasures  in  his  blessings,  in 
the  absence  of  sleet  and  snow  and  umbrellas,  and 
even  more  homely  paraphernalia  of  winter.  He 
merely  noted  that  the  electric  lamps  had  been 
lighted  early  and  showed  white  against  the  com- 
ing twilight.  Once  when  he  saw  a  yellow  lamp 
of  gas,  it  produced  a  physical  aversion.  He  was 
in  a  sensitive  mood  just  then,  and  needed  whites 
and  grays  and  sober  half-tones,  but  he  did  not 
hesitate  to  court  the  new  and  less  agreeable  sen- 
sations. They  were  more  educating  from  another 
point,  along  other  lines,  to  him. 

16 


A  Middleman  of  Art 

It  affected  him  strangely  that  he  of  all  other 
people  in  the  world  knew  least  of  this  woman 
whom  Julian  had  chosen  to  be  the  leading  influ- 
ence in  his  life.  It  hurt  his  love  for  the  young 
fellow  that  he  who  had  wined,  dined,  and  roomed 
with  Julian  had  a  lesser  advantage  than  the  most 
casual  reader  of  their  Sunday  magazine. 

He  walked  on  and  left  the  city  far  behind  him. 
There  was  a  time  in  his  journey  when  shops 
seemed  to  end  and  residences  begin.  The  fact 
was  unnoted  usually,  but  vaguely  aided  his  de- 
velopment on  this  occasion.  His  new  frame  of 
mind  became  less  confused.  First  an  outline  had 
merged  into  long  rows  of  stores,  and  after  a  while 
these  became  interspersed  with  dingy-fronted 
homes  that  had  lost  caste  and  become  lodging- 
houses.  They  had  "  To  let "  signs  hung  out  and 
were  uninviting.  A  great  many  people  came 
and  went  along  the  sidewalks  like  black  swarms, 
and  now  and  then  this  man  of  ours  tried  to  pick 
out  an  individual  from  amongst  them  ;  but  he 
could  not  do  so  satisfactorily,  so  he  gave  the 
thought  up  after  a  second  and  put  all  his  mind 
on  walking.  It  had  been  a  sort  of  undefined 
searching  for  Julian's  ideal. 

There  are  many  districts  in  San  Francisco, 
each  widely  different  as  to  atmosphere,  however 
close  as  to  locality.  From  the  centre  of  the 
town  the  suburbs  reach  out  like  a  great  variously 

17 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

colored  mesh-work,  each  district  with  its  own 
kind  of  thread ;  and  from  the  heart  of  the  town 
lead  tiny  cords  of  characteristic  hue  to  guide  one 
to  his  destination. 

Indeed,  we  have  but  to  follow  some  chattering 
Celestials  and  off  there  is  Chinatown  itself,  with 
its  narrow  streets,  its  sidewalk  stalls,  its  high 
tenements,  and  its  own  peculiar  atmosphere  ;  while 
this  car,  with  its  odor  of  garlic,  speaks  of  the 
Spanish  and  Latin  quarters,  which  lie  well  to- 
gether over  toward  the  north  strip  of  bay. 

Imperceptible  caste  lines  divide  us,  whether  we 
are  denizens  of  the  water-front,  or  shiftless  toilers 
"  South  of  Market,"  or  respectable-looking  me- 
chanics heading  toward  their  instalment  homes  in 
the  Mission. 

We  are  not  thoroughly  American  yet.  The 
beautiful  idea  prevails,  and  men  fight  for  it,  but 
we  are  not  American  in  the  true  sense  of  the 
word.  We  are  prone  to  draw  fine  lines  of  dis- 
crimination in  times  of  peace,  and  say  equality  is 
a  very  fine  thing  at  political  meetings,  the  while  we 
turn  a  noiseless  lock  in  our  pretty  gates.  We  are 
a  great  community,  but  we  are  not  American  yet. 

Jameson's  cord  led  out  to  the  Spanish  Quarter. 
Some  old  Senoras,  their  heads  covered  with  shawls, 
their  clothes  redolent  with  the  smell  of  garlic, 
from  time  to  time  shambled  across  his  pathway. 
They  were  heavy  old  women,  in  worn  flapping 

18 


A  Middleman  of  Art. 

slippers  and  uncorseted  figures.  Jameson  did 
not  attempt  to  analyze  his  impression.  He  loved 
beautiful  women,  aesthetic  things,  and  once  the 
opposite  impression  filled  him  with  a  resistance 
almost  sickening.  These  caricatures  of  their  own 
beginning  were  contradictions  of  the  beautiful 
harmony  of  life. 

"  It  is  time  to  be  old." 

The  old  Senoras  had  never  heard  of  Mr.  Emer- 
son, but  the  God  of  Bounds  must  have  called 
to  them,  and  they  had  butchered  his  message. 
With  them,  this  saying,  "  It  is  time  to  be  old,"  to 
throw  down  the  game  like  some  startled  player, 
and  cast  one's  self  on  the  mercies  of  the  Virgin, 
had  come  twenty  years  or  so  before  it  should. 
The  Latin  people  accomplish  such  physical  trans- 
lation. There  comes  a  time  when  they  eat  and 
sleep  without  bodily  need  of  food  and  slumber, 
and  they  unloose  their  moral  responsibilities  upon 
the  Virgin. 

Jameson  strode  on,  awakening  at  last.  Once 
some  words  slipped  from  him,  and  as  the  quiet 
voice  associated  with  the  steel-like  eyes  and  the 
copper-colored  hair  all  attained  unexpected  har- 
mony. These  were  the  words  that  broke  forth 
on  the  heavy-laden  air :  "  I  must  have  been  mad." 

He  had  taken  Julian  away  from  his  mother,  he 
reflected  as  he  went  along:  to  dedicate  him  to 
that  most  unsatiable  of  lovers,  to  the  real  Queen 

19 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

of  Man,  the  one  rightful  goddess,  to  her  who  sat 
on  the  fair  throne  of  Ambition  wearing  the  laurel- 
wreath  of  Fame;  but  he  had  not  taken  him  away 
that  another  woman  might  have  him.  There 
was  a  jealousy  of  the  affections  in  that  thought,  as 
well  as  a  dumb  rebellion  against  this  sudden 
move  from  Nature ;  for  he  was  fond  of  Julian,  he 
had  grown  used  to  Julian's  unconcealed  boy  wor- 
ship of  him.  This  worship  had  made  Jameson 
gentler,  and  he  needed  that  form  of  influence,  for 
his  own  life  had  developed  violently.  There  had 
been  the  innocence  of  childhood,  out  of  which  he 
emerged  with  the  knowledge  that  his  best  friend 
lay  wrapped  in  the  eternal  silence:  that  he  had  no 
mother.  Then  he  had  gone  to  a  boarding-school, 
and  mourning  her  in  some  vague  fashion,  he  had 
become  a  boy,  with  the  outward  and  visible  signs 
of  boyhood,  but  underneath  these  were  also  some 
high  ideals.  He  had  no  material  worries.  Did 
he  need  a  dollar,  or  even  five  of  them,  his  need 
was  invariably  satisfied.  He  was  too  young  to 
stop  and  question  "  from  whence."  Thus  the 
beauty  of  his  thoughts,  the  rare  isolation  of  a 
few  tender,  exalted  memories,  became  corrupted. 
Unconsciously,  he  grew  proud,  arrogant,  worldly. 
Circumstances  did  their  worst  for  the  defenceless 
and  unguided  spirit  of  good,  but  he  was  only  a 
child,  working  out  for  himself  those  great  prob- 
lems which  men  often  hesitate  to  attempt. 

20 


A  Middleman  of  Art 

He  cherished  his  high  ideals  pathetically,  the 
while  he  committed  those  boyish  mistakes  that 
irreverent  companionship  demanded  of  him.  For 
instance,  one  day  he  quarrelled  with  one  of  the 
instructors.  The  man  was  young  himself,  and 
hot-headed,  and  he  had  galled  the  proud  will  of 
the  boy.  "  I  won't  obey  you,"  young  Jameson 
had  cried.  "  You  are  only  a  hired  coach  of  old 
Evans's,  and  the  Jamesons  are  not  paying  for 
insolence  this  year." 

The  young  fellow  had  flushed  a  dull  red,  and 
answered :  "  No,  they  are  being  paid  for  it.  All 
America  is  waiting,  each  man  with  his  penny,  for 
the  privilege  of  blacking  your  boots,  my  boy. 
Hired  coaches  are  not  that  clever." 

Poor  Jameson.  He  went  into  the  master's 
study  and  came  out  a  different  boy.  He  had  suf- 
fered, —  vital,  strangling,  transforming  suffering. 
After  that  all  the  strength  of  his  lonely  boyhood 
grew  into  a  bitter  passion  for  some  success  which 
would  compensate  for  the  pain  and  humiliation  of 
that  day.  In  plainer  language,  he  had  no  founda- 
tion for  anything.  His  father  had  never  paid  for 
his  schooling  since  the  first  one  of  these  lonely 
years.  He  was  not  as  good  as  a  hired  coach,  he 
was  merely  a  charity  pupil.  It  was  miserable. 
His  arrogance,  his  brilliant  promise,  his  generous 
allowance,  the  very  meals  he  ate,  were  all  due  to 
the  benevolence  of  an  old  man  named  Joy,  a 

21 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

friend  of  his  father,  whom  Jameson  looked  down 
upon  because  this  old  man  had  spilled  his  soup 
during  their  first  meeting.  It  was  miserable. 

In  subsequent  researches  into  the  family  his- 
tory, he  made  similar  discoveries.  He  found  his 
father's  exquisite  manner,  his  inimitable  gentle- 
manliness,  even  his  faultless  Prince  Albert  and 
many  epicurean  tastes,  were  due,  each  and  all,  to 
the  soup-spilling  philanthropist  also.  In  other 
words,  this  elegant  gentleman  had  spent  his  whole 
life,  after  his  dissipation  of  a  genteel  private  for- 
tune, "  climbing  other  people's  stairs." 

The  two  great  elements  of  Jameson's  character 
had  been  cruelly  shattered.  He  was  proud,  and 
he  had  believed  in  good.  Had  it  been  the  pride 
alone,  it  might  not  have  been  such  a  big  loss  to 
him.  Aided  by  the  belief  in  good,  there  would 
have  been  a  conflict,  some  pain,  and  a  certain 
victory.  But  the  good  had  also  received  a  blow. 
He  stood  in  the  darkness  of  his  disillusions,  and 
it  was  impossible  to  prophesy  in  just  what  man- 
ner or  in  just  what  spirit  he  was  to  emerge.  At 
first  there  seemed  to  be  but  one  escape  from  the 
taunts  and  lashings  of  his  discoveries.  He  would 
leave  the  school,  but  on  second  thoughts  it  ap- 
peared to  him  cowardice  to  fly  from  it  all.  That 
night  he  wrote  old  Joy  about  it,  and  the  next 
month  sent  his  parent  the  first  remittance  to 
which  he  had  a  rightful  claim. 

22 


A  Middleman  of  Art 

He  had  become  an  under-teacher  himself.  It 
was  a  very  small  remittance,  over  which  old  Joy 
said,  "Tush,"  and  with  which  Jameson,  senior, 
had  dined  daintily,  by  way  of  a  change,  at  the 
club.  The  younger  Jameson  had  never  been 
able  to  tear  his  father  away  from  the  luxury  of 
these  environments.  Having  once  sold  his  in- 
dependence, the  old  gentleman  did  not  indulge 
in  any  rash  remorses.  He  believed  in  compen- 
sation, he  said ;  a  man  must  sacrifice  principle  or 
pleasure.  It  was  insolent  to  expect  both. 

He  died  with  the  many  consolations  for  his 
voyage,  and  surrounded  by  all  that  the  affluence 
of  his  kind  friends  could  give  him ;  a  trained 
nurse,  a  fashionable  physician,  and  a  frilled  night- 
shirt; then  old  Joy  had  said  to  the  tall,  silent 
young  fellow  standing  there :  "  Give  up  the 
school.  You  are  not  cut  out  for  a  master. 
Come  here,  and  we  will  look  around  for  some- 
thing by  and  by.  This  boy  of  mine  swears  by 
you,  as  it  is."  Jameson  winced.  This  seemed 
to  mean  doing  nothing  also,  a  condition  which  he 
could  not  accept ;  but  he  left  the  school  for  all 
that,  and  allowed  old  Joy  to  find  him  a  place  on 
his  paper.  He  liked  the  field,  and  he  was  aware 
of  his  adaptability  to  it.  It  was  a  growing  jour- 
nal, and  Jameson  carried  into  his  work  a  con- 
sciousness of  his  own  inherent  gentlemanliness. 
He  knew  old  Joy  had  a  great  deal  of  money 

23 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

invested  in  the  enterprise,  but  not  much  gentle- 
manliness  as  the  world  may  judge  it.  So  Jame- 
son put  his  in  as  a  form  of  stock  for  his  old 
friend,  in  return  for  that  kind  old  man's  mate- 
rial benefactions.  His  great  debt  to  this  old 
stockholder  was  never  forgotten,  whatever  mag- 
nitude his  own  individual  interest  attained  in 
time. 

It  was  solitary,  rather  pathetic  of  him,  but  a 
good  quality  for  us  to  remember  about  him,  as 
every  one  is  not  so  grateful. 

Then  he  commenced  his  real  career.  He  was 
a  tall,  awkward  young  fellow,  who  believed  in 
compensation.  He  did  not  believe  in  much  else, 
and  he  did  not  care  to  be  like  his  father ;  but  it 
was  ironical  that  his  rarest  spiritual  consolation 
was  a  legacy  from  that  despised  and  miscarried 
life. 

He  worked  for  money  just  at  first,  because  that 
was  all  that  labor  represented  to  him.  The  money 
had  been  an  inherited  standard  also,  so  he  was 
not  to  blame.  Then,  after  a  month  or  so,  he  was 
working  still  for  money,  but  working  well.  The 
mere  effort  had  provided  its  own  stimulus.  He 
did  not  realize  this  at  first.  He  thought  that  this 
was  all  life  had  to  offer,  and  he  thought  he  was 
satisfied  because  old  Joy  was  not  ashamed  of 
him. 

With  the  dull  passiveness  of  a  brute  that  may 
24 


A  Middleman  of  Art 

be  felled,  he  learned  a  strange,  brute-like  patience ; 
and  then  he  was  to  be  spared,  and  not  only  spared, 
but  selected  for  higher  labor. 

He  received  a  complimentary  advancement. 
There  was  no  error  in  his  analysis  of  it.  It  was 
to  himself,  to  the  self  he  had  believed  to  be 
buried,  but  that,  after  a  struggle,  had  been  resur- 
rected. There  could  be  no  denial.  He  was  glad, 
in  a  throbbing,  triumphant  manner;  then  life 
went  on  as  usual. 

He  still  labored  toward  the  goal,  but  the 
motive  for  success  had  another  incentive.  He 
strove  for  leadership. 

From  time  to  time  good  news  of  him  reached 
the  ears  of  old  Joy,  telling  that  he  had  admirable 
qualities  for  the  profession,  a  superiority  to  any 
hair-splitting  or  wearying  cases  of  casuistry ;  that 
he  was  indefatigable  in  his  work,  and  had  a  gener- 
ous share  of  that  natural  polish  which  proves  the 
most  impenetrable  cover  to  any  necessary  finesse. 
"  He  would  have  a  future,"  't  was  said ;  so  when 
old  Joy  fell  ill,  he  sent  for  this  son  of  his  old- 
time  friend. 

Jameson  went  at  once.  He  went,  prepared  to 
see  the  dying  benefactor  of  his  family,  the  man 
who  had  saved  respectability  for  them,  and  all  he 
saw  was  a  common,  kind-faced  old  fellow  propped 
up  on  many  pillows  and  attired  in  a  dressing-gown 
of  various  colors.  It  was  a  terrible  dressing- 

25 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

gown.  It  jarred  upon  Jameson's  sensitive  nature. 
It  destroyed  the  sentimentality  of  his  humor,  and 
he  despised  himself,  but  he  was  unable  to  regain 
the  grief,  so  he  had  to  sit-complaisantly  through 
this  interview. 

"  I  am  leaving  that  lad  of  mine,  young  and 
very  ignorant,  and  mothers  do  not,  cannot  know 
what  to  do.  Will  you  have  an  eye  on  him  ? 
See  that  he  learns  all  that  will  benefit  him.  I 
have  never  believed  we  learn  from  good  alone. 
Point  out  the  pitfalls  to  him,  but  do  not  cover 
them  over,  as  too  many  walk  in  through  igno- 
rance of  the  dangers.  Will  you  guide  him,  advise 
him  ?  Ah,  I  knew  you  would.  God  bless  you, 
boy." 

Jameson  accepted  the  trust  as  it  was  offered. 
After  the  good  old  man  had  been  laid  away,  he 
carried  the  trust  from  that  new-made  grave,  feel- 
ing the  responsibility  with  a  tenderness  akin  to 
that  of  parenthood. 


26 


Ill 

JULIAN 

THAT  was  the  way  in  which  Jameson  had 
spent  his  life  during  his  earlier  manhood. 
Meanwhile,   nurtured  in  a  luxurious 
home,  reared  by  an  indulgent  mother,  his  heart 
and  mind  slumbering  springs  of  romance,  the  boy 
Julian  approached  his  inheritance.     His  schooling 
finished,  he  sought  his  vocation.     On  every  side 
was  ideality.     Flowers  bloomed,  the  birds  sang ; 
trees  and  hazy  clouds   and   mountains,  the  sea, 
with  its  never-ending  beauty,  all  led  him. 

Presently  he  chose  art.  It  was  his  desire  not 
to  be  material  like  his  father,  and  I  doubt  if  he 
could  have  succeeded  but  for  his  money,  which 
lay  back  of  his  ambition,  bracingly.  He  devel- 
oped just  enough  talent  to  interest  his  relations. 
All  prophesied  a  future  for  him.  Jameson  re- 
sponded to  the  proper  moment,  when  it  arrived, 
but  he  had  not  reflected  upon  the  question 
according  to  the  boy's  temperament.  He  did 
not  ask  himself  whether  Julian  could  stand  the 
life  of  the  city  as  he  himself  had  done.  Life  was 
bounded  by  his  own  egotistic  views,  and  he  passed 

27 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

out  from  the  Joy  household,  taking  Julian  with 
him,  into  his  own  bustling  life. 

Later  he  might  have  hesitated,  but  just  at  that 
time  he  combated  the  mother's  love  in  a  purely 
commercial  manner.  He  felt  that  it  was  his  duty 
to  old  Joy,  and  he  was  prepared  to  fulfil  the 
obligation  ;  but  Mrs.  Joy's  point  of  view  annoyed 
him  in  a  peculiar  manner.  His  own  mother  had 
died  when  he  was  too  young  to  analyze  this  form 
of  affection.  Mrs.  Joy  was  not  complex  at  all 
in  her  attitude  concerning  Julian's  career  or  his 
future.  She  did  not  want  him  to  leave  her,  she 
said  simply,  and  sat  staring  helplessly  at  Jameson. 
She  saw  where  Jameson  had  changed  himself, 
and  she  felt  an  unacknowledged  alarm  concerning 
these  changes.  It  would  be  terrible  if  Julian 
were  to  come  back  some  day  to  her,  a  fine  citizen 
of  the  great  world,  but  not  her  companionable 
young  son ! 

Jameson's  voice  was  gentle  enough  in  his  re- 
sponses to  her,  but  firm  throughout.  He  thought 
less  of  all  women  mentally,  after  this,  and  Mrs. 
Joy  and  her  views  seemed  but  echoes  of  the 
eternal  feminine  to  him. 

She  had  said  tearfully :  "  I  love  him.  He  is 
my  only  child.  He  has  no  father." 

She  felt  that  was  all  that  was  necessary.  She 
did  not  think  that  Jameson  could  even  have  an 
answer  for  it. 

28 


Julian 

Jameson  repeated :  "  You  love  him.  He  is 
an  only  child.  He  has  no  father.  Does  a  career 
count  for  nothing,  dear  friend  ?  Is  art  worth  no 
sacrifice  ?  Is  not  your  duty  to  him  twofold 
under  the  circumstances  ?  " 

She  sat  like  an  entrapped  mouse.  She  did  not 
know  what  to  say  to  him,  so  he  answered  himself. 
It  was  a  crucial  moment. 

"  It  is  always  so,  dear  lady.  Art  and  sacrifice  go 
well  together.  They  are  synonymous,  these  two. 
But  success  is  worth  any  sacrifice  we  make  for  it. 
Julian  will  make  a  success,  I  am  sure.  Let  the 
boy  go  to  the  city  with  me,  and  I  '11  make  both  a 
man  and  an  artist  of  him.  Art  is  worth  all,"  he 
ended,  —  "  separation,  absence,  friendship,  love." 

She  looked  around  her  luxurious  room.  She 
tried  to  hold  her  ground  against  him,  but  it  was 
useless  before  the  man's  will. 

"  Cannot  I  go  with  Julian  ? "  she  asked,  after 
several  moments.  She  would  have  gone  wil- 
lingly, gladly,  so  she  awaited  Jameson's  answer 
breathlessly. 

He  did  not  keep  her  waiting  long.  "  No, 
your  very  presence  would  defeat  our  object. 
Sacrifice  itself  propitiates  the  goddess.  Mother- 
liness,  affection  of  any  sort,  destroys  centralization 
of  our  efforts.  Let  him  feel  the  separation,  suffer 
and  absorb  the  grief,  the  loneliness,  and  throw  it 
into  art.  I  '11  help  him.  He  '11  come  back  a 

29 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

man,  still  capable  of  loyalty  to  you,  without  the 
apron-string  idea." 

"  I  shall  lose  his  personality,"  she  cried,  "  the 
close  touch  of  some  kindred  human  being.  It  is 
all  that  makes  life  tolerable  to  most  of  us.  Is 
art  worth  all  this?" 

His  voice  softened.  "Art  is  worth  it  all,"  he 
replied  once  again.  "  I  owe  you  and  his  father 
a  great  obligation.  Let  me  try  to  cancel  it  by 
giving  this  help  to  your  boy." 

He  saw  that  he  had  not  expressed  himself  well, 
according  to  her  standpoint,  so  he  amended : 
"  There  is  a  time  when  our  divinity  bends  and 
proffers  to  some  lucky  mortal  the  laurel-wreath 
of  Fame."  It  was  the  height  of  eloquence,  but 
Mrs.  Joy  was  literal,  and  to  her  it  was  as  if  he 
had  said  nothing. 

However,  Julian  went.  His  mother  accom- 
panied him  to  the  station.  The  train  came,  and 
when  it  stopped,  Jameson,  who  had  been  looking 
another  way,  saw  she  was  holding  the  boy ;  she 
had  both  arms  around  his  neck,  was  looking  into 
his  face,  and  weeping. 

He  smiled.  It  was  a  pretty  picture,  lost  to 
Julian  from  the  fact  of  his  being  a  party  to  the 
artistic  effect,  but  it  was  not  serious.  He  felt  that 
Julian  would  have  gone  to  the  dogs  with  that 
surplus  enthusiasm  unlocated,  so  Jameson's  act 
seemed  justifiable  to  himself. 

30 


Julian 

He  was  to  think  more  of  this  later.  The  act 
was  to  gain  in  weight,  and  fall  on  him  like  a 
blow. 

"  J°y>"  ne  asked,  one  evening  at  dinner,  "  how 
is  your  mother  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know/*  the  boy  returned. 

It  was  the  entire  unconsciousness  of  the  reply 
which  staggered  Jameson.  He  felt  a  tightening 
about  his  heart-strings.  "  When  did  you  last 
write  your  mother,  Julian  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,'*  the  youth  answered  once 
again ;  "  two  or  three  weeks  ago,  I  think.  By 
the  way,  I  want  your  opinion  on  this  study  of  a 
woman.  I  am  going  to  let  the  expression  name 
her,  as  labelling  is  amateurish  these  days." 

The  creature  was  floating  on  some  unsubstan- 
tial cloud-bed,  full  of  limb,  fair  of  hair,  wanton 
of  mouth,  with  none  too  many  clothes  on,  and  a 
splendid  possibility  of  never  having  more. 

"  She  is  a  woman  whom  the  clubs  have  for  a 
cocktail  just  now ;  I  do  not  know  how  much 
bad  or  good  is  in  her,  but  she  is  half  Russian, 
and  all  good  fun,"  Julian  explained  about  her. 

Jameson  sprang  to  his  feet  with  an  imprecation, 
muttered  curses  succeeding  it,  stabbed  as  he  was 
by  a  voice  with  the  undying  glory  of  mother- 
hood in  it :  "  Is  art  worth  it  all  ? " 

Julian  had  never  seen  him  angry  before. 
"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked. 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  Go ;  write  to  your  mother.  Is  this  a  new 
ideal  that  you  are  setting  above  her  ?  " 

The  boy  looked  sullen.  "  It  is  my  picture. 
I  want  it  back/*  he  cried,  coloring. 

"  You  '11  get  it ;  do  not  fret/'  Jameson  replied. 
He  held  the  flippant  thing  aloft,  giving  a  last 
look  to  it.  It  burned  a  mocking  way  into  his 
brain,  smiling  and  smiling  and  smiling.  Then, 
with  a  sudden  angry  movement,  he  tore  the  hate- 
ful thing  in  two,  from  that  time  working  for 
Julian's  mother,  as  well  as  the  boy's  own  worldly 
success. 


IV 
THE   TERRACE 

HE  and  the  boy  had  become  good  friends 
in  time. 
At  first  it  was  a  responsibility  to 
Jameson;  but  the  boy's  gay  good  humor,  the 
innocence  of  his  youth,  the  very  error  of  his  un- 
pruned  ideas,  were  oases  in  the  man's  life.  He 
came  to  look  for  the  ready  word  of  admiration 
of  himself;  the  glad  smile  of  almost  son-like 
welcome  that  Julian  was  ever  ready  to  give. 
It  was  almost  like  having  a  woman  around 
one,  and  Jameson's  heart  gave  way  before  it, 
after  a  little,  like  hard  earth  yielding  to  the 
plough. 

In  return  he  kept  the  boy  close  to  the  great 
ideals.  Some  day  he  wanted  to  stand  by  Joy 
senior's  grave  and  feel  that  he  had  repaid  every- 
thing, and  that  their  services  to  each  other  were 
equal.  "  Quit  yourselves  like  men."  If  he 
failed  with  Julian,  Jameson  felt  he  would  have 
failed  of  his  obligations ;  and  he  did  not  care  to 
be  outdone  in  man's  honor  by  this  silent,  com- 
mon old  gentleman. 

3  33 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

The  years  had  gone  by  as  usual,  until  the  last 
months  of  their  life  together.  Mrs.  Joy  was  up 
in  her  country  home,  waiting,  but  not  impatiently. 
She  had  grown  accustomed  to  Julian's  absence 
and  to  depending  on  his  letters. 

But  one  evening  she  dropped  a  few  pathetic 
words  in  her  business  missive  to  Jameson.  She 
said  that  "  she  trusted  dear  Julian  would  not 
work  too  hard.  Jameson  must  not  let  him  do 
it.  As  for  herself,  she  could  stand  her  part  of 
the  sacrifice  (Jameson  stared  at  this  and  then 
colored)  so  long  as  the  dear  boy  just  scratched 
ever  so  few  words  in  his  own  writing  to  her  !  " 

"  Is  n't  that  just  like  a  woman  ? "  Julian  re- 
marked, smiling,  when  he  glanced  through  it. 
"  Women  always  want  the  earth  and  then  make 
believe  they  are  perfectly  resigned  at  not  getting 
it.  Women  are  the  most  self-evident  tricks  I 
know.  They  are  absolutely  transparent.  Dear 
little  mother!  " 

He  read  on  with  proper  emphasis : 

"  c  So  long  as  the  dear  boy  just  scratches  ever 
so  few  words  in  his  own  writing  to  me ! '  she  will 
be  satisfied.  Oh  yes  !  and  all  that  letter  is  written 
because  I  have  n't  had  time  to  get  off  my  usual 
volumes  to  her  these  evenings,  and  so  have  got- 
ten down  to  souvenir  postals.  I  thought  the 
souvenir  part  a  fine  idea,  but  they  have  failed  to 
delude  her." 

34 


The  Terrace 

"  You  have  n't  been  killing  yourself  with  work 
lately." 

"  I  tell  you  this  much,"  Julian  returned  posi- 
tively, "  I  have  n't  had  time  to  write  mother  or 
to  shave  decently  for  months.  Some  evening 
I  '11  find  myself  at  some  swagger  banquet  with 
either  a  postal  to  mother  in  my  hand  or  your 
razor.  It's  work  all  day  in  town  and  then  out 
every  evening,  and  sometimes  just  time  enough 
in  the  morning  to  change  my  clothes  and  imagine 
the  rest  —  " 

The  "  rest "  appealed  to  his  ready  wit  after  it 
was  uttered.  He  looked  weary,  but  produced 
some  of  his  effervescent  mirth. 

"  That  is  an  unpremeditated  pun,"  he  re- 
marked, leaning  against  the  casing  of  the  door 
and  looking  as  if  he  enjoyed  the  support  it 
gave  him.  "  I  am  so  dead  tired,  my  wits  are 
worn  out,  and  I  've  had  to  rub  up  any  old 
thing  to  say  to  my  partners  at  dinner.  I  am 
glad  my  brain  has  not  gone  out  of  business, 
after  all." 

Jameson  stared. 

"  We  've  been  perfect  fools,"  he  exclaimed,  all 
of  a  sudden.  "  We  have  been  neglecting  art  and 
devoting  our  best  forces  to  a  few  vapid,  tinsel 
functions.  I  've  been  worse  than  you,  for  I  'm 
older.  What  good  have  these  people  whom  we 
have  met  done  us  ?  None  at  all." 

35 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

They  said  the  same  words  later  to  each  other. 
It  became  a  crisis  in  their  lives.  They  said  that 
a  man  could  not  be  popular  with  two  or  three 
muses ;  that  he  had  to  bury  himself  socially  or 
endure  mental  burial.  If  they,  Jameson  and 
Julian,  did  not  settle  down  to  business,  they 
would  become  second-rate  and  stay  so.  They 
meant  marrying  an  average  wife,  rearing  an  ordi- 
nary family,  and  after  a  while  enjoying  their  own 
deterioration. 

A  whist  club  or  a  cotillon  had  all  the  horrors 
of  the  plague  after  this  awakening  of  the  celibates 
to  their  dangers,  so  Jameson  and  Julian  cut  short 
their  social  careers. 

One  day  Julian  came  in.  "  Jame,"  he  an- 
nounced, "  I  've  been  out  hunting  rooms,  and 
I  Ve  found  a  fine  place  for  us.  It 's  way  out  of 
our  own  district  of  town,  where  we  won't  have 
even  a  shadow  of  social  temptation.  It  is  in  a 
sort  of  little  court  which  lies  through  the  centre 
of  a  steep  old  hill.  Tenements  are  just  thick 
every  side  of  it,  and  in  the  very  midst  is  that 
funny  little  spot,  —  like  a  smile,  really.  Some- 
where I  have  read  a  phrase,  and  it  haunted  me  as 
I  looked  at  this  little  terrace,  — c  Yonder  alleys 
green.  Yonder  alleys  green/  ' 

He  repeated  it  in  a  dreamy  fashion,  as  if  his 
mind  were  afar  off  in  this  glad  half-acre  of 
Arcady  that  he  had  just  discovered. 

36 


The  Terrace 

"  There  is  an  Irishwoman  who  has  some  lodg- 
ings to  let,  Jame,"  he  went  on  presently.  "  We 
had  better  take  them,  had  n't  we  ?  " 

Jameson  just  looked  up  from  his  writing. 

"  You  know  what  we  need,  my  boy,"  he 
replied. 

That  was  an  end  to  it.  They  packed  their 
effects  and  took  Mrs.  O'Byrne's  rooms.  She 
was  a  stout  Irishwoman,  whose  very  unintel- 
ligence  had  been  her  chief  charm  for  them. 
Here,  under  her  kindly  wing,  the  friends  would 
have  good  dinners,  sleep  in  peace,  foster  art  as 
they  had  anticipated.  There  would  be  no 
more  hotel  parties,  imitation  gayety,  middle-class 
friends. 

One  evening,  soon  after  their  arrival,  Julian  had 
come  in,  dreamy-eyed.  It  was  a  familiar  expres- 
sion to  his  friend,  as  Julian  always  allowed  dreams 
in  his  eyes  when  he  felt  the  strength  of  those 
invisible  forces  that  are  commonly  called  Fate. 

"  Jame,  do  you  remember  Antonia  Vlor  ?  "  he 
asked. 

Antonia  Vlor  was  the  firebrand  already  re- 
ferred to. 

"  I  have  had  no  occasion  to  forget  her,"  Jame- 
son answered  literally.  "  In  fact,  she  does  not 
give  me  occasion  to  forget  her,  as  we  see  each 
other  periodically." 

Julian  hesitated. 

37 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  Yes,  that  is  it,  if  it  is  n't !  She  does  n't  give 
one  occasion  to  forget  her,  someway,  as  other 
acquaintances  do.  She  never  becomes  past  to 
us,  but  keeps  right  on  in  our  lives.  Do  you 
remember  Alfons  Strong,  Jameson  ? "  he  asked 
next. 

"  Oh,  Great  Heaven  !  Is  there  anything  about 
Antonia  that  fades,  as  you  say  ?  Strong  is  the 
fellow  who  was  before  us,  before  everybody,  is  n't 
he  ?  The  discoverer  of  Antonia  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  lives  in  the  Terrace  here,"  Julian 
remarked. 

Neither  spoke  at  once;  then  Jameson  said, 
wondering  why  this  fact  that  Julian  had  an- 
nounced seemed  at  all  unpleasant : 

"  Well  ? " 

"  Nothing,  except  it  brings  all  of  us  rather 
close,"  Julian  returned,  still  dreaming.  "  It 
seems  to  join  our  lots  in  some  way,  —  yours, 
Strong's,  and  mine." 

"  I  don't  see  how,"  Jameson  uttered  doggedly. 
"  I  have  often  seen  the  man  in  town,  ridden  in  the 
street-cars  with  him,  met  him  here  or  there.  I 
can't  see  why  your  and  my  living  in  this  Ter- 
race makes  our  relations  toward  Antonia  Vlor's 
first  lover  any  different."  After  a  second,  he 
asked, — 

"  Did  Strong  come  here  to  forget  society  too, 

Joy  ? " 

38 


The  Terrace 

"  No,  he  lives  here/'  Julian  replied.  "  I  think 
he  has  always  lived  here,  since  those  days  when 
he  made  a  fool  of  himself  because  of  her  beauty, 
'  even  as  you  and  I.'  ' 

"  I  do  not  know  that  I  ever  did  that,"  Jameson 
interrupted  decisively. 

"  Well,  we  might  have  done  it  then,"  Julian 
replied. 

They  sat  a  while  silent. 

"  Jameson,"  Julian  broke  out  after  a  while,  "  is 
love  only  an  influence,  a  developing  influence,  do 
you  think  ?  I  remember  the  time  when  Strong 
nearly  died  because  Antonia  threw  him  over 
for  some  richer  fellow.  Now  he  just  lives  here 
and  does  n't  seem  to  remember  her  at  all,  or 
that  period  of  his  existence.  Why  is  it  all, 
Jameson  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  an  arbiter  of  human  destinies," 
Jameson  answered  dryly. 

"  Jameson,  do  you  remember  that  story  we 
once  heard  about  Strong,  that  he  had  a  sister, 
and  that  she  was  heartbroken  over  his  affair  with 
Antonia;  and  that  she  saved  him  from  Antonia, 
after  a  while  ?  I  remember  I  used  to  think  that 
she  was  a  middle-aged  signorina,  with  the  sus- 
picion of  a  moustache." 

He  sat  waiting. 

"  Would  n't  you  have  thought  that,  Jameson  ? " 
he  asked. 

39 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  I  never  thought  at  all,"  said  Jameson.  "  I 
never  thought  of  Strong's  sister  at  all." 

The  boy  did  not  seem  to  mind.  He  had 
ceased  dreaming,  and  sat  smiling  sweetly  all  to 
himself. 

That  had  been  their  introduction  to  the  Terrace. 


40 


THE    OWNER   OF  THE    FACE 

JAMESON  had  never  doubted  the  social  at- 
mosphere of  the  Terrace  until  the  evening 
after  his  talk  with  the  Art  Editor.  He  did 
not  know  much  about  it,  in  fact.  He  had  been 
unusually  busy  at  the  office,  and  had  hardly 
known  where  he  roomed.  Still  he  had  subcon- 
scious opinions  in  regard  to  it.  He  knew  Alfons 
Strong  was  a  gentleman,  and  that  Alfons  lived 
there  just  as  they  did ;  but  he  had  not  had  time 
to  discover  why. 

Until  this  evening,  it  had  appeared  the  kind 
of  place  whose  inhabitants  celebrated  Saturday 
nights,  and  made  a  popular  enjoyment  of  Sunday 
excursions.  There  had  not  been  many  signs  of 
gentlefolk  around,  as  they  are  judged  by  money 
value. 

But  to-night  all  was  changed  to  him.  As  is 
often  the  case  in  our  Western  city,  the  high  hill 
which  he  was  forced  to  mount  cut  the  white  fog 
as  it  swept  in  from  the  cool  ocean,  and  let  it  pass 
either  side  like  great  shifting  walls.  The  air  was 
moist  but  clear,  and  there  was  even  that  gentle- 

41 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

ness  in  the  moisture  which  so  deceives  one  that 
he  unbuttons  his  top-coat,  and  allows  some 
coquettish  cold  to  embrace  him. 

This  night,  everything  was  reversed  to  Jame- 
son. Thus,  when  he  reached  the  Terrace  entrance 
at  last,  it  did  not  lay  wrapped  in  its  habitual  silence. 
It  mocked  him.  It  laughed  out  the  wonderful 
fact  of  life  which  we  are  so  insolent  to  ignore, 
the  fact  that  life  is  full  of  invisible  obstructions, 
which  lie  across  our  pathway  like  jolly  strings 
upon  which  the  children  of  the  gods  play,  and 
procure  innocent  enjoyment  from  us. 

There  had  been  a  cleft  that  relieved  the  monot- 
ony of  tenements  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  and 
here  the  Terrace  was  inserted.  To-night,  it  took 
on  an  optimistic  air;  there  were  two  rows  of 
little  houses  in  it  facing  each  other,  with  a  garden 
between.  The  houses  were  painted  white,  and 
had  clean,  common  little  curtains  beautifying  their 
homely  fronts.  He  had  not  studied  the  subject; 
he  had  not  known  that  cleanliness  could  beautify 
common  things,  and  that  this  was  one  of  the  com- 
pensations of  poverty.  Jameson  was  awakening ; 
he  saw  the  place  in  a  new  light,  he  felt  for  the 
first  time  how  a  mind  like  Julian's  might  deal 
with  its  confessions  and  its  alleviations.  Deli- 
cately and  even  tenderly  the  boy  would  appreciate 
such  redeeming  points. 

The  garden,  enclosed  in  its  picket-fence,  con- 
42 


The  Owner  of  the  Face 

tributed  its  offering  to  the  sunset.  The  man 
inhaled  its  sweet  scents.  He  had  not  smelled 
geraniums  for  years.  They  were  like  women  all 
at  once,  a  contrast  to  the  splendid  conventional 
creatures  to  whom  he  was  so  well  used,  with  their 
odor  of  hot-house  violets.  Some  women  had 
spoiled  violets  for  him  by  wearing  them.  He 
smelled  verbena  to-night,  old-time  roses  and 
geraniums. 

He  was  lost  in  discovery,  and  was  barely  notic- 
ing whither  he  went.  In  this  way,  he  all  but 
stumbled  upon  a  woman  who  was  silhouetted 
against  the  foliage.  Just  for  an  instant  or  so,  she 
remained  a  part  of  his  fancy.  She  was  like  a 
personification  of  Good  in  a  garden  of  sweetness, 
and  simplicity  and  beauty.  Then  his  fancies  re- 
solved themselves  into  facts  again  ;  a  child  had 
fallen  on  the  splintery  planking,  and  the  woman 
was  kneeling,  trying  to  comfort  it.  It  was  quite 
a  little  child,  uncertain  as  to  tears,  so  amid  the 
doubt,  it  had  yielded  a  tender  little  palm  to  the 
woman's  lips. 

Jameson  observed  the  plainness  of  her  gown, 
the  little  tired  stoop  to  her  shoulders,  the  uncon- 
scious, half-foreign  manner.  Had  she  been  more 
richly  clad,  he  might  have  discovered  even  then 
that  she  was  not  a  Terrace  woman,  but  he  did  not 
do  so  until  she  raised  her  face.  It  was  as  nega- 
tive at  first  as  a  colorless  Madonna's,  but  his 

43 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

glance  effected  a  transfiguration,  and  the  color 
slowly  mounted  to  the  soft,  sunless  hair. 

Jameson  had  long  been  searching  for  a  face, 
and  this  one  satisfied  his  desire.  It  seemed  a 
response  from  the  great  world  to  him,  but  he  did 
not  connect  it  with  Julian's  sweetheart.  One  could 
not  deal  with  this  face  as  if  any  one  else  had  a 
claim  on  it.  It  was  a  strange  countenance,  strong 
as  a  woman's  yet  tender  as  a  child's,  and  could 
be  the  result  of  but  one  union  —  that  of  people 
of  different  nations.  All  light  was  going  out  of 
the  day,  but  darkness  was  afar  off,  and  the  girl's 
face  was  a  pleasing  element  in  the  semi-gloom. 
Such  a  face  to  meet  in  a  lowly  Terrace  where  the 
people  are  supposed  to  go  on  Sunday  excursions  ! 
A  girl's  face  bereft  of  the  youth  it  should  have 
had,  —  that  above  all ;  a  girl's  face  with  the  treas- 
ures of  deep  womanhood  incongruously  supplied 
with  a  calm  less  constant  than  that  of  girlhood, 
as  if  a  lonely  heart  called  its  sunniness  inward ;  a 
face  with  the  mark  of  the  heel  of  the  world  upon 
it,  marring  the  ecstasy  of  its  smile  ;  and  the  eyes 
—  instinctively  Jameson  raised  his  hat. 

When  he  found  himself  inside  the  door  of  his 
own  room,  he  hesitated.  The  girl's  eyes  had 
come  in  with  him.  They  were  haunting,  won- 
derful pleading  eyes,  which  mirrored  the  clear, 
kind  spirit  she  called  her  soul.  Light  had  all 
but  departed,  he  said  to  himself;  but  had  light 

44 


The  Owner  of  the  Face 

gone  altogether,  and  did  all  earth  grow  dark 
around  her,  Jameson  felt  that  those  bright  lamps 
would  still  burn  as  lights  in  some  cottage  window. 

He  went  up  the  steep  little  staircase  slowly. 
It  was  uncarpeted,  and  the  sound  of  his  feet 
jarred  upon  his  hearing.  He  went  into  his  own 
room  first.  It  was  a  room  untouched  by  the 
hand  of  woman,  or  even  by  that  of  a  tasteful 
man.  There  was  the  atmosphere  of  cleanliness 
which  Mrs.  O' Byrne  imparted  to  it,  when  she 
spread  the  bed  and  dusted  the  bureau,  but  other- 
wise it  was  masculine.  There  was  a  collar-box 
on  the  chiffonier,  there  was  a  sofa-cushion  which 
Mrs.  Joy  had  given  him,  and  as  he  did  not 
know  where  to  place  this,  it  stood  on  the  top 
of  his  table.  From  underneath  the  pretty  ruffle 
it  is  not  surprising  that  the  painted  lady  smiled 
bewilderingly  over  her  unfeminine  predicament. 

He  moved  here  and  there,  did  Jameson.  He 
did  not  think  of  Julian's  career,  nor  of  the  girl 
who  seemed  to  check  it,  according  to  the  Art 
Editor.  In  truth,  he  did  not  think  of  Julian 
at  all,  but  of  that  face  he  himself  had  seen  in 
this  quiet  Terrace. 

The  eyes  had  been  such  beautiful  eyes. 

After  a  search,  he  found  his  pipe,  and  then 
went  into  the  room  where  Julian  was  dressing. 


45 


VI 

A   POINT   OF   VIEW 

WHOLLY  unprepared  for  the  knowledge 
that  his  friend  had  acquired  since  their 
last  meeting,  Julian   did  not  look  as 
desperate  as  a  man  might  feel  after  toying  with 
his  own  great  chances.     The  affair  did  not  seem 
to  be  causing  him  any  large  regret,  or  even  any 
small  misgiving. 

He  stood  before  the  mirror,  struggling  with  a 
refractory  tie,  but  turned  at  the  sound  of  Jame- 
son's entrance. 

"  Well,  old  man  !  "  he  exclaimed,  and  went 
on  with  his  occupation.  He  was  evidently  in 
harmony  with  existence,  and  looked  radiantly 
satisfied  as  well. 

Jameson  stood  near  the  doorway,  silent.  He 
was  taking  everything  in.  It  was  almost  pain- 
fully jarring.  He  absorbed  the  unornamental 
surroundings,  —  the  brown  paint  on  the  cheap 
floor,  the  unfeminine  chairs  and  tables  placed 
here  and  there.  Every  uncurtained  window  was 
wide  open,  and  a  smell  of  tobacco,  which  had 
not  taken  advantage  of  the  open  windows,  per- 
meated the  apartment  affectionately. 

46 


A  Point  of  View 

Julian  was  a  singularly  beautiful  boy  as  he  stood 
there,  in  years  perhaps  three  and  twenty.  He 
was  tall,  pale  and  spiritual  as  to  looks,  beautiful 
as  the  dream  of  a  poet,  but  with  a  look  so  like 
unto  heaven,  that  as  a  stout  Irishwoman  had 
once  said  of  him :  "  It  would  be  well  if  he  too 
drank  whiskey,  if  it  made  one  lusty  like  gay 
Mr.  Alfons."  Jameson  had  known  him  since 
he  was  a  little  child.  For  the  first  time  in  their 
lives,  the  masterfulness  of  manhood  seemed  to 
have  taken  the  place  of  the  youth's  former  sweet, 
unsettled  boyishness.  This  change  had  come  as 
swiftly  as  the  spirit  of  prophecy  might  descend 
on  a  prophet.  At  another  time,  Jameson  might 
not  have  noticed  this,  but  the  experience  of  the 
evening  enabled  him  to  receive  these  new  im- 
pressions without  surprise. 

Again,  Julian's  first  words  were  singularly  rele- 
vant to  the  approaching  crisis,  although  they 
fluttered  with  the  boy's  usual  joyousness.  "  I 
wish  I  were  married,"  he  said. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  saying  things 
like  that  ? "  asked  Jameson,  as  if  he  had  re- 
ceived a  dash  of  water  in  his  face.  The  two 
friends  had  formerly  believed  women  to  be  like 
kittens  ;  pretty  enough  as  a  promise,  but  best 
drowned. 

Julian  answered  literally,  because,  for  one  thing, 
he  liked  to  tease,  and,  in  the  second  place,  he 

47 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

imagined  that  Jameson  was  still  as  ignorant  of  his 
secret  as  he  had  been  all  along. 

"Two  months  and  three  days,  exactly,"  he 
replied.  Then  he  turned  back  to  the  glass  and 
smiled,  because  he  could  not  help  it ;  the  smile 
of  tentative  love,  still  glorious  and  full  of  gla- 
mour. Out  of  it  a  deep  joy  may  grow,  but  it 
is  a  beautiful  fancy  in  the  beginning,  similar  to 
that  state  of  mind  when  we  have  not  yet  slipped 
from  the  unreality  of  glowing  dreams.  (For  two 
months  and  three  days  and  several  hours  they 
had  been  residents  of  the  Terrace.) 

Jameson  watched  the  smile  also.  "  Why  do 
you  wish  to  be  married  ? "  he  asked. 

"  If  I  had  a  wife,"  the  boy  returned,  "  my 
collar-buttons  would  be  safe  in  a  little  silver- 
topped  box  on  her  dressing-table,  and  not  under 
that  couch  over  there,  or  in  your  linen.  Then 
when  the  tie  act  was  coming  on  badly "  (here 
he  made  a  sweeping  gesture  to  accompany 
the  thought),  "  she  would  appear,  and,  presto ! 
domestic  equilibrium  would  be  restored." 

Jameson  ceased  to  watch  him.  He  went  and 
stood  again  at  the  window.  "  What  is  the  deco- 
rating for  ?  "  he  asked  at  last,  for  he  thought  it 
time  to  repair  his  lame  intelligence. 

"  I  am  going  out  to  tea,"  Julian  explained, 
throwing  him  a  glance.  "  It  is  a  crime  against 
my  body,  committed  in  the  name  of  Love." 

48 


A  Point  of  Vieiti 

(This  was  hyperbolical,  and  amused  him.)  "  I 
feel  like  a  knight  or  a  crusader,  or  say  a  suit  of 
armor."  He  made  another  boyish  gesture,  and 
it  was  as  if  he  drew  a  sword  from  its  scabbard, 
his  joyousness  glistened  so. 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  tea  ?  "  asked  Jame- 
son. 

"  Oh,  her  name  is  really  Murphy,  but  here  we 
do  not  know  people  that  way.  They  call  this 
person  the  Bachelor  Woman,  and  she  lives  in  the 
lodging-house  across  the  street." 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  associating  with 
these  people,"  Jameson  exclaimed.  He  did  not 
betray  the  real  state  of  his  feelings,  at  once. 
"  You  never  told  me  before." 

"  Never  told  you  ?  "  echoed  Julian.  "  I  never 
told  you  before  ?  "  It  had  a  strange  sound  that 
required  forgiveness.  "Why,  I  have  talked  of 
nothing  else,  in  the  evenings,  for  two  whole 
months,  two  whole  months  and  three  days  of 
evenings,"  and  at  this  addition  he  laughed  again. 
Nothing  could  destroy  the  joyousness  of  that 
mood,  just  then. 

"  Then  I  was  not  listening  to  you,"  Jameson 
replied.  It  did  not  relieve  his  position,  but  it 
made  amends  for  his  sense  of  self-defeat.  Julian 
stared. 

"You  were  not  listening  to  me,"  he  repeated, 
as  if  he  enjoyed  the  words.  "You  were  flat 
4  49 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

enough  in  the  role,  believe  me,  but  you  are  posi- 
tively stale  and  unprofitable  now.  You  tell  me 
things  that  I  have  been  railing  against  for  weeks, 
and  tell  them  as  if  they  were  not  merely  news, 
but  a  scoop.  It  is  not  my  fault  that  you  have 
no  taste,  nor  manners,  nor  even  civility,  Jamie ; 
your  parents  were  to  blame.  Besides,  there  is  a 
time  in  our  lives  when  we  have  to  talk  to  some 
one,  and  if  you  had  not  been  sitting  at  the  table, 
or  snoring  behind  the  evening  paper,  I  could 
have  talked  just  as  cheerfully  to  the  cat." 

He  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room  before  the 
mirror,  tall,  handsome,  self-satisfied,  willing  to 
explain.  His  gestures  were  very  winning. 

Jameson's  color  changed  at  this.  "In  plain 
every-day  language,"  he  asked,  "  how  far  have 
you  gone  in  this  business  ?  All  I  have  gleaned 
from  your  conversations  was  that  you  were  con- 
verting these  people  into  currency,  —  into  carica- 
tures." 

The  boy  picked  out  the  offending  word : 
"  Business,"  he  echoed,  —  "  business  !  "  Oh, 
the  beautiful  disdain  of  fair  youth  !  Then  he 
said,  barely  sneering  :  — 

"Your  vocabulary  is  limited,  my  dear  Jame- 
son ;  this  is  an  affair  of  the  heart !  " 

It  was  gentle  as  May  outside.  There  was  no 
sign  of  a  harsher  season.  A  thin  sliver  of  a 
moon  had  appeared,  and  had  become  more 

50 


A  Point  of 

powerful  by  degrees,  as  the  sky  grew  darker.  It 
seemed  responsible  for  a  light  full  as  pure  and 
pale  as  Julian's  passionateness.  This  was  beau- 
tiful, rare,  and  yet  masculine. 

"  I  thought  you  came  here  for  business ! " 
exclaimed  Jameson. 

At  this,  the  great  Transformer  of  mere  men 
and  women  softened  the  pale  face  of  the  boy. 
There  was  an  exquisite  rebuke  in  his  manner. 

"  Why,  I  came  here  —  O  Jameson,  life  is  as 
beautiful  to  me  here  as  it  could  be  in  Arcadia ! 
Life  is  full  of  wonders,  and  why  I  came  here,  that 
is  the  most  wonderful  of  all." 

He  hesitated,  half  trembling.  Jameson  stepped 
forward,  away  from  the  window,  with  a  swift,  irri- 
table motion,  and,  reaching  upward,  lit  the  gas. 
The  act  rescued  them  from  the  sentimentalism  of 
those  last  words.  They  stood  revealed  in  the 
glaring  light,  two  young  men  with  the  marks  of 
a  strenuous  life  on  their  faces. 

"  Julian,  I  think  you  are  mad,"  Jameson  said, 
assisted  materially  by  the  light,  which  seemed  to 
restore  his  speech. 

The  boy  took  a  step  backward.  It  would 
have  been  easy  for  him  to  laugh,  but  he  restrained 
himself  from  any  audible  manifestation.  Other- 
wise, it  was  all  more  joyous  than  mere  merriment. 
"  You  err,  but  not  so  hopelessly  this  time,  Jame," 
he  cried.  "  I  am  mad,  but  with  love.  And  I 

Si 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

did  come  here  on  business.  It  is  to  be  a  life 
partnership.  I  am  conservative,  also,"  he  con- 
tinued ;  "  it  is  worship,  too,  as  idyllic  as  Francesca 
da  Rimini  could  wish,  yet  as  sound  as  our  old 
bachelor  religion  for  Riesling  and  beefsteaks." 

Then  from  the  superiority  of  his  new  educa- 
tion, he  reached  out  and  gave  the  stolid  chest 
before  him  a  boyish  thrust.  "  It  is  paganism  to 
believe  so  in  the  deism  of  beefsteaks,  as  we  used 
to,  Jameson  —  fanatical  paganism." 

"  In  nineteenth  century  language,"  Jameson 
interrogated  coldly,  "you  came  here  to  study 
types,  and  she  is  one,  I  suppose  ?  " 

The  boy's  voice  alone  combated  the  disap- 
proval. The  note  of  truth  in  his  tone  grew 
stronger,  and  his  smile  steadier ;  but  he  continued 
in  his  jesting  manner,  "  She  is  not  a  type,  old 
man,  but  an  angel." 

The  word  is  commonplace  and  bathetic,  unless 
one  is  in  love  too.  Its  utterance  expressed  all 
the  encomiums  which  Julian  would  have  indulged 
in  if  he  might  thereby  have  accomplished  Jame- 
son's conversion.  To  him,  it  seemed  to  express 
the  girl,  so  he  said  no  more.  We  are  misers,  all 
of  us,  in  such  matters.  We  whisper  an  eloquence 
fit  to  be  proclaimed  from  the  housetops,  into  one 
pair  of  pretty  ears,  and  rejoice  over  the  limited 
beauty  of  our  accomplishment.  Strange  indeed 
is  human  ambition. 

52 


A  Point  of  View 

The  next  few  moments  he  employed  finding 
his  top-coat  and  departing. 

Jameson,  left  in  the  empty  chambers,  tried  to 
quarrel  with  his  pipe.  He  said  to  himself  that  it 
was  a  poor  thing  or  it  would  have  improved  in 
the  time  he  had  had  it. 

"She  is  not  a  type,  old  man,  but  an  angel." 
It  hovered  over  the  commonplaceness  of  his  and 
Julian's  eight  years'  friendship.  It  seemed  as 
ludicrous  one  instant  as  it  seemed  sacred  the 
next. 

"  I  wish  I  had  asked  him  what  she  was  before 
she  evolved,"  Jameson  muttered,  and  then  he 
continued  smoking,  almost  violently. 

Off  at  his  tea-party,  Julian  broke  into  smiles 
once  when  he  was  in  the  very  midst  of  tuning  a 
violin  which  no  one  owned  and  yet  which  every- 
one played  on,  of  occasions  —  very  badly  too. 

It  was  a  very  becoming  instrument  to  the 
young  artist,  especially  when  he  merely  held  it; 
but  he  laid  it  down  this  time,  and  arose  from  his 
seat  beside  the  piano,  crossing  to  where  a  young 
girl  sat  with  her  dark  head  against  a  bold  blue 
background. 

"  What  do  you  suppose  I  was  thinking  ?  " 
Julian  asked. 

"  I  know  a  great  many  things  about  you,"  the 
young  girl  replied,  "  but  I  cannot  read  all  your 
thoughts  yet." 

53 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Jameson,  my  room-mate, 
you  know.  He  came  home  to-night  asking  all 
sorts  of  questions  about  the  Terrace  people.  He 
had  found  out  about  you  !  It  is  great  fun  to  me. 
He  thinks  that  you  are  some  ordinary  little  mortal 
with  blonde  hair  and  a  noticeable  waist." 

She  sat  looking  up  at  him.  She  did  not  follow 
his  meaning  as  quickly  at  times  as  other  girls  had 
done  before  her.  It  was  as  if  she  were  not  up  in 
all  the  idioms  of  his  language,  but  this  was  not 
so,  as  she  was  an  American,  born  and  reared  in 
San  Francisco.  The  difference  lay  in  association, 
for  she  had  not  had  many  young  friends,  especially 
startlingly  honest  young  artist  friends,  such  as  this 
one. 

"  What  did  he  find  out  about  me  ?  How  is  it 
great  fun  to  you  ?  I  am  an  ordinary  little  mor- 
tal, but  —  why  would  he  think  all  that  other, 
Julian?" 

"  Oh,"  answered  Julian,  "  you  ought  to  sit  be- 
fore bold  backgrounds  forever,  and  talk  as  if  you 
came  out  of  silence.  I  could  paint  you  and  get 
into  the  Louvre  before  I  am  four  and  twenty." 

After  this  they  both  smiled,  and  it  needed  no 
interpretation,  as  joy  is  a  universal  language. 


54 


VII 
HALF-GODS 

E~FT  to  himself,  Jameson  continued  think- 
ing about  Julian's  love  affair.     Such  an 
interruption  as  marriage  just  now  might 
check  Julian's  mental  and  artistic  growth  forever, 
leaving  him  merely  a  bright  young  man  with  a 
marble  goddess  shattered  throughout  his  career. 
There  would  be  pieces  of  her  all  along  his  life 
journey ;    but    the  pieces  would  be   few  and  far 
between,  so  that  he  would  be  unable  to  put  the 
wonderful  bits  together. 

Such  a  Julian  as  that  would  be  was  easy  for 
Jameson  to  imagine.  He  would  be  a  Julian  with 
the  ready  smile  on  his  shaven  lips,  the  boyish 
word,  and  the  easy  manner.  He  would  be  ever 
the  kind  friend,  living  "  in  simpleness  and  gentle- 
ness and  honor  and  clean  mirth,"  a  courtly  and 
genial  gentleman  ;  but  he  would  not  be  known  as 
a  genius.  Jameson  believed  him  capable  of  becom- 
ing great  if  he  practised  concentration  ;  but  Julian 
would  never  gain  fame  through  matrimony. 

He  would  spend  all  his  valuable  time  leaning 
over  a  baby's  crib,  or  he  would  waste  his  glorious 

55 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

art  making  cherub  studies  of  it,  or  creating  Ma- 
donna figures  of  his  baby's  mother. 

"  He  must  not  marry  her,"  Jameson  thought. 
It  was  a  hard  problem  for  this  sober-lived  young 
man,  whose  copper-colored  hair  was  the  most 
lively  thing  about  him.  It  was  such  triumphant 
hair,  as  if  all  the  spiritual  fires  that  he  had  seemed 
to  quench  were  not  to  be  extinguished  altogether. 

It  was  a  hard  problem,  as  I  say.  Jameson  did 
not  know  what  to  make  of  it;  so  he  sat  on  and 
smoked.  He  did  not  believe  in  love,  so  it  was  not 
heartless  of  him  to  oppose  the  boy's  happiness. 
In  fact,  Jameson  did  not  believe  that  happiness 
was  involved  in  the  situation ;  not  at  all. 

He  believed  that  men  could  live  by  themselves 
and  be  very  happy  so  doing.  It  was  terrible  of 
Julian  to  become  an  apostate  to  this  creed  just 
when  he  might  have  felt  the  real  richness  of  celi- 
bacy and  its  strength.  And  why  was  it  strong  ? 
Because  its  great  force  was  undivided.  Jameson 
believed  in  celibacy.  He  and  Julian  had  often 
said  that  the  strength  and  weakness  of  matrimony 
lay  in  some  great  civil  law  like  this :  that  a  wife 
could  not  accompany  her  husband  if  he  were 
captain  of  a  great  human- freighted  steamer. 

It  was  such  a  positive  illustration.  Why  could 
she  not  do  so  ?  It  was  the  man's  work,  his  heart 
work  perhaps,  his  honor;  a  brave,  fine  man,  no 
doubt,  when  he  was  a  captain,  responsible  for  any 


Half-Gods 

number  of  human  lives.  He  would  die  with  the 
ship  if  it  need  be,  go  down  last ;  but  out  of  two 
thousand  women  appealing  to  him  for  aid,  let  but 
one  be  huddled  amongst  them  who  had  the  power 
to  reach  down  to  him,  below  his  eyes,  and  no  man 
on  earth  could  answer  for  the  consequences. 

Bah!  — 

So  far  Jameson  believed  all  this.  He  was 
sincere  in  his  position,  but  it  was  not  necessarily 
a  correct  one.  He  had  had  no  mother,  so  to 
speak,  no  sister  solicitous  about  his  coming  or 
going;  about  the  rent  in  his  coat,  or  the  shadow 
in  his  life,  or  the  way  that  he  brushed  his  hair. 
No  woman  had  ever  touched  his  hair  as  mothers 
or  sisters  often  do,  fondly,  proudly,  sympatheti- 
cally ;  so  if  he  did  not  believe  in  women,  maybe 
we  should  be  lenient  and  say  gently :  f<  May  he 
learn  more  of  good  women  and  the  joy  and  peace 
they  are  to  us.  He  does  not  know." 

Jameson's  social  life  had  not  reflected  any  of 
the  depth  and  breadth  of  woman  nature.  His 
knowledge  of  the  fair  sex  was  superficial,  while 
the  women  with  whom  he  had  smiled  and  talked 
were  only  figures  to  him.  When  he  entered  the 
mental  room  which  held  them,  it  was  like  a  visit 
to  the  pleasant  parlors  of  an  artistic  modiste. 

The  only  woman  with  whom  he  had  more 
than  a  passing  acquaintance  was  a  stormy-hearted 
Bohemienne  to  whom  he  had  once  tendered  the 

57 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

price  of  a  meal.  He  had  tendered  it  as  he  would 
have  done  to  a  man  who  was  hungry,  only  more 
delicately.  It  had  seemed  an  ordinary  act  to  him, 
but  it  had  established  a  strange  bond  between  him 
and  the  woman.  The  woman  was  Antonia  Vlor. 

This  Antonia  was  the  same  brand  that  he  had 
plucked  from  Julian's  young  path,  so  she  was  not 
so  much  a  woman  after  all  in  Jameson's  life,  as  an 
accident. 

She  had  not  entered  his  life,  as  woman  will,  but 
had  occurred  in  it;  and  in  that  light  she  remained. 
He  had  not  sought  her,  so  her  coming  had  been 
rather  violent,  and  a  thing  to  be  remembered. 
He  did  not  investigate  the  subject,  or  he  might 
have  found  it  dangerous  for  Antonia  to  "  remain  " 
so  long ;  but  he  was  very  busy,  and  did  not  give 
the  possibility  any  thought.  That  was  just  like 
Jameson,  yet  if  Antonia  continued  to  be  his  friend, 
it  made  her  more  and  more  powerful  to  him,  es- 
pecially if  she  had  no  rivals.  He  never  thought 
of  marrying  Antonia,  but  he  liked  her  off  and 
on.  She  was  a  little  more  strong  of  brain  than 
the  hotel-women,  and  more  soothing  than  men. 
Yes,  guided  by  her  intuitions,  Antonia  was  far 
more  soothing  than  men,  who  at  best  communi- 
cated their  sympathies  by  a  hearty  slap  on  his 
shoulders.  Antonia  would  have  turned  the  lights 
low,  or  given  some  such  convincing  proof  of  her 
being  at  heart  a  woman. 


Half-Gods 

Jameson's  introduction  to  this  strange  creature 
had  been  quite  as  interesting  as  its  subsequent 
development. 

Antonia  had  been  a  "  toast "  in  those  days. 
She  was  very  beautiful,  and  had  a  way  of  re- 
sponding to  these  overtures  so  gracefully,  that 
men  forgave  her  all  her  offences,  and  laughed, 
drank,  and  flirted  with  her,  then  went  home  not 
any  better  for  her  company,  nor  leaving  her  any 
better  because  of  theirs.  She  was  a  beautiful 
thing,  like  a  cup  of  champagne,  and  often  she 
provoked  a  subtle  thirst  for  intoxication.  She 
was  not  a  good  woman,  but  no  man  in  her  life 
had  ever  regarded  that  phase  of  it,  save  to  his 
own  advantage.  They  did  not  owe  her  a  duty, 
of  course,  such  as  they  did  to  their  sisters  or 
their  wives.  In  fact,  they  never  spoke  of  the 
latter  in  the  same  breath  with  her,  because  she 
had  unclassed  herself;  and  from  the  masculine 
point  of  view  one  of  the  methods  in  accomplish- 
ing this  had  been  literally  to  lay  her  soul  in 
the  hand  of  the  devil,  while  they  helped  to  close 
the  hand  afterward.  They  said  that  they  found 
her  after  she  had  been  a  toast  at  club  dinners,  so 
"  it  was  none  of  their  business  what  she  had  been 
before."  There  is  a  masculine  dealing  with  mor- 
als here  which  is  interesting. 

The  way  in  which  Antonia  occurred  in  Jame- 
son's life  was  this  :  — 

59 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

One  night  Julian  and  he  had  chanced  to  meet 
her  at  a  Bohemian  spread,  which  some  one  (who 
did  n't  care)  had  given  for  his  few  chosen  friends. 

"  Don't  go,"  Jameson  had  said  to  Julian.  "  I 
have  to.  We  all  have  to  at  times.  The  fellow 
is  in  a  position  to  assist  me."  It  was  one  of  his 
well-accepted  philosophies,  dry  and  not  good,  yet 
not  bitter.  But  for  once  Julian  had  rebelled,  so 
in  that  way  they  had  gone  together,  and  Antonia 
had  dawned  on  the  young  artist  like  a  "  mock 
sun."  The  immorality  of  it  struck  Jameson 
sharply.  He  was  not  the  Jameson  of  to-day. 
Life  was  more  complex  to  him,  honor  more 
worth  while,  falsity  of  purpose  more  hateful ;  so 
when  he  saw  Julian  losing  his  head  to  Antonia's 
witcheries,  and  calling  it  all  art,  he  had  said,  "  I 
am  going  home,  and  damn  you,"  and  he  had 
gone  armed  in  his  moral  anger,  leaving  the  man 
who  "  was  in  a  way  to  assist  him  "  stupefied  with 
astonishment.  When,  a  few  days  later,  he  had 
caught  the  boy  with  a  sketch  of  his  faulty  god- 
dess, he  had  torn  the  thing  in  two.  Only  once 
after  that,  when  Julian  had  some  exquisite  roses, 
he  had  come  out  of  his  own  life  with  passion. 
"  Where  are  they  going,  boy  ?  " 

"  To  her,"  fiercely. 

"  The  same  woman  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  Then  I  am  going  to  take  them  for  you ; 
60 


Half-Gods 

a  better  messenger  than  you  could  pay  for,  all 
except  the  cap  and  brass  buttons." 

Thus  he  carried  to  Antonia  her  roses.  He 
had  left  Julian  swallowing  his  pride  like  a  de- 
tected boy;  and  he  found  Antonia  beautiful, 
dangerous,  but  reasonable  ;  for  in  that  one  act 
she  acknowledged  her  master,  willingly. 

There  was  no  subterfuge,  such  as  women  prac- 
tise on  themselves.  Women  of  Antonia's  type 
are  the  more  honest  when  it  comes  to  the  point, 
their  honesty  being  of  a  more  primitive  nature. 
She  loved  Jameson  from  the  first,  and  his  indif- 
ference to  her  bodily  charms  increased  her  ad- 
miration for  him.  He  had  nothing  much  to 
risk  in  those  days.  There  was  no  social  harm 
she  could  do  him,  so  from  time  to  time  he  called 
on  her.  They  were  strange,  perfunctory  calls, 
and  he  carried  her  ever  a  spiritual  hope  that  she 
might  become  a  better  woman.  He  was  not  in 
love  with  her;  he  simply  hated  the  thought  that 
womanhood  should  be  smirched.  Other  men 
carried  her  bon-bons  and  flowers. 

At  any  rate,  on  these  occasions  he  saw  the 
best  of  her  God-forsaken  life,  and  during  the 
time  she  was  under  his  influence  he  had  every 
reason  to  believe  that  she  had  begun  to  regard 
virtue  as  an  accomplishment ;  for,  one  by  one  the 
lovers  and  the  gay  times  became  more  infrequent. 
They  were  both  poor  then,  rather  Bohemian, 

61 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

strictly  Platonic,  yet  with  his  knowledge  of  her 
attempt  at  reformation  there  had  come  no  intoxi- 
cating sense  of  egotism,  such  as  other  men  might 
have  felt.  He  was  good  in  those  days,  and  lived 
well  for  Good's  own  sake. 

One  night  he  went  to  call  on  her. 

"  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  you  are  hungry. 
Will  you  take  some  money  from  me  ?  " 

She  was  hungry  and  she  had  taken  it.  She  had 
wondered  how  he  would  act  under  such  circum- 
stances. Then  time  went  on. 

Another  evening  he  had  dared  say  to  her: 
"  Will  you  go  to  work  ?  I  should  like  it  if  you 
would  go  to  work.  I  could  find  it  for  you, — 
some  honest  employment." 

All  the  patience  and  sacrifice  of  his  friendship 
failed  to  save  her  after  that.  It  had  been  too 
sudden. 

Her  name  became  coupled  with  that  of  a  rich 
nobody.  With  his  old  sense  of  justice,  Jameson 
had  verified  his  failure  with  her,  then  he  had 
ceased  to  call.  There  was  a  disappointment,  but 
nothing  personal  about  the  disappointment.  It 
was  just  general. 

Until  Julian  had  said  one  day,  coldly,  "  She  is 
only  trying  to  make  you  jealous,"  he  had  not 
known  that  men  and  women  stooped  to  such  play 
or  to  such  trifling  means,  in  their  friendships. 

All  this  assisted  his  education. 
62 


Half-Gods 

Then  several  years  elapsed.  One  day  (of 
apoplexy,  most  likely)  the  rich  nobody  died. 
She  was  much  better  off.  Gradually  a  mad  sense 
of  her  possible  power  led  her  to  seek  Jameson 
again. 

"  You  look  more  successful,"  she  said  disap- 
pointedly, at  first.  "I  — " 

"  Oh,"  he  answered,  smiling  slightly,  "  was 
there  not  much  room  for  improvement  in  those 
days  ? " 

"  Do  you  still  eat  beefsteak-pie  at  generous 
restaurants,  as  we  used  to  ?  I  remember  it  was 
beefsteak-pie  the  evening  you  asked  me  to  go  to 
work." 

He  looked  at  her,  still  smiling.  "  Those  were 
my  besetting  sins,  always,  —  honesty  and  an 
appetite.  I  was  foolish." 

"  Will  you  come  to  see  me  ? "  she  replied  to 
this. 

"  I  am  changed,"  he  answered.  "  I  would  not 
do  you  the  same  good,  nor  am  I  yet  so  worthless 
that  I  care  to  do  past  illusions  any  harm." 

"  It  has  been  a  long,  long  time  to  wait  for 
nothing,"  said  the  woman. 

Then  he  went  back  to  his  work,  but  gradually 
they  drifted  into  the  old  singular  friendship 
again. 

It  was  into  this  man's  arid  life  that  Ludwiga's 
eyes  had  penetrated. 

63 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

Jameson  sat  on  in  the  dark  alone.  Once  again 
he  said,  half  aloud,  half  to  himself:  — 

"  Assuredly  Julian  must  not  marry  yet.  I 
wish  I  knew  more  about  women.  I  wish  I  even 
knew  who  this  woman  is  that  Julian  is  such  a 
fool  over.  I  wish  —  " 

He  got  to  his  feet  abruptly  and  relit  the  gas. 
It  came  through  a  modest  chandelier  that  had  brass 
figures  twined  about  it,  solemn-faced  St.  Josephs, 
hugging  brainless-looking  lambs.  There  was  the 
same  religious  form  with  a  good  deal  more  color 
in  the  centrepiece  from  which  the  chandelier  was 
suspended. 

"  'Pon  my  word,"  Jameson  said,  when  the  light 
illuminated  the  apartment,  "  I  had  forgotten  all 
about  Alfons  Strong  !  Strong  will  tell  me  who  it 
is  that  Julian  is  so  lost  on.  I  must  ask  him  to- 
morrow. I  have  gotten  ahead  of  the  young 
duffer  after  all." 

He  stood  a  bit,  smiling,  and  then  he  proceeded 
to  go  to  work  at  a  cluttered  table. 


64 


VIII 

ABOUT   THE   MIRROR   OF   THE   HEART 

WHEN  the  light  from   Lewis  Jameson's 
window   fell   into    the    Terrace    below 
him,   a   man    who    had    been    leaning 
against  a  dark  post,  smoking,  stirred  indolently. 
He  was  rather  bored  by  himself  and  anxious  for 
some  one  with  whom  to  converse. 

It  was  a  beautiful  evening  also,  and  rather 
early,  —  perhaps  eight  or  so.  The  man  made  no 
sound  which  could  give  any  sign  of  his  presence. 
He  simply  stood  in  the  shadow,  silent,  indolent, 
now  making  curls,  now  sending  forth  a  succession 
of  graceful  rings  into  the  cool  evening  air,  all  in 
an  enjoyable  manner.  As  he  stood  so  well  in  the 
gentle  shadow,  he  was  barely  discernible  or  recog- 
nizable. By  the  light  of  the  lamp  his  goodly 
portions  were  magnified  until  he  resembled  a 
Roman  god  in  a  pagan  frieze,  this  effect  being 
heightened  by  a  distorted  lattice  railing,  which 
cast  lines  and  inter-lines  across  his  reproduced 
figure.  He  was  not  aware  that  he  had  made  an 
artistic  silhouette.  He  merely  smoked,  barely 
thinking.  He  was  a  half-Florentine,  who  lived 

5  65 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

next  door  to  the  friends.  He  was  not  so  remark- 
able for  being  a  half-Florentine,  as  he  was  for 
being  a  half-Florentine  with  a  German  name.  It 
was  symbolic  of  his  disposition,  and  afforded  a 
special  delight  to  any  one  who  came  in  contact 
with  him.  Julian  had  said  that  the  young  man 
dwelt  with  his  sister,  and  Jameson  had  supposed 
her  to  be  stout  and  middle-aged,  as  he  had  heard 
various  kind  stories  about  her.  She  also  bore  a 
German  name,  which  emphasized  the  idiosyn- 
crasy until  it  demanded  an  explanation. 

In  Hawthorne's  unique  study  of  Wakefield, 
he  concludes :  "  Life  is  an  immense  course  of 
systems.  By  stepping  aside  for  a  moment,  a 
man  exposes  himself  to  a  fearful  risk  of  losing  his 
place  forever." 

There  had  been  a  time  when  Alfons  Strong 
had  allowed  himself  to  step  aside,  and  this  step 
was  to  affect  years  of  his  existence.  He  now  had 
no  place,  and  the  fields  on  either  side  of  the 
straight  and  narrow  path  that  he  had  left  were 
very  wide  and  pleasant.  He  was  not  intense  and 
he  was  not  over-brilliant,  but  his  nature  was 
capable  of  enjoyment,  and  this  capacity  eclipsed 
every  other  motive.  Such  a  temperament  often 
is  capable  of  much  suffering,  although  one  would 
not  think  it  from  looking  at  this  young  man. 
Were  he  a  man  in  a  strong  light  and  not  a  huge 
black  silhouette  merely,  it  would  be  seen  that  his 

66 


About  the  Mirror  of  the  Heart 

face  expressed  little  suffering.  It  was  gay,  kind, 
good-natured.  There  was  not  one  feature  or 
expression  of  it  which  was  evil,  except  its  weak- 
ness, and  even  that  was  a  form  of  evil  which  was 
pitiable. 

He  stood  alone  a  short  while,  smoking,  and 
then  smiling  at  the  gray  rings  that  curled  into  the 
dim,  sweet  air.  Then  he  spoke  quite  aloud,  like 
a  person  who  was  no  company  for  himself  and 
seldom  thought  as  you  or  I  might  do. 

"  I  think  I  shall  drop  in  on  Jameson,"  he  said. 

Going  in  without  knocking,  he  climbed  Jame- 
son's and  Julian's  staircase  leisurely,  until  he 
reached  the  upper  landing.  All  his  movements 
were  slow,  graceful,  un-American  as  we  have 
come  to  know  the  typical  qualities. 

Jameson  was  very  glad  to  see  him. 

"  Strong,  'pon  my  word,"  he  said ;  "  do  you 
know,  I  was  just  thinking  of  you,"  and  he  remem- 
bered that  he  had  used  the  same  words  earlier  in 
the  evening. 

He  got  up  from  his  seat  and  placed  an  easy- 
chair  for  his  guest,  and  after  this  he  went  over 
and  took  a  box  of  cigars  off  their  mantel  and 
proffered  it  to  the  young  man  too.  Some  things 
fell  off  the  mantel  when  Jameson  moved  the  box 
of  cigars. 

Young  Strong  looked  at  them. 

"  I   do   not    know  how  you    get   on    without 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

women,"  he  said ;  "  who  picks  those  things  up 
to-morrow  ? " 

They  both  stared  at  the  articles  in  question. 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  O'Byrne,"  Jameson  replied,  feeling 
rather  lonely  somehow. 

"  I  think  one  of  my  most  inexcusable  qualities,*' 
Alfons  returned,  "  is  to  upset  things  around  my 
sister.  Her  head  looks  so  pretty  when  she  is 
picking  them  up." 

He  said  it  without  the  smallest  ingredient  of 
contrition.  His  love  for  his  sister  did  not  pre- 
vent him  from  making  her  suffer. 

Jameson  did  not  know  how  to  commence  his 
conversation  with  Alfons.  They  were  casual 
friends.  Years  before,  they  had  met  off  and  on 
in  town,  not  knowing  much  about  each  other, 
but  feeling  acquainted  because  of  the  length 
of  time  during  which  they  had  heard  of  each 
other,  as  well  as  the  knowledge  Jameson  had 
of  Antonia's  figuring  in  Alfons's  early  life. 

They  had  become  comrades  of  a  sort  lately,  — 
comrades  of  smoke.  There  had  been  evenings 
when  Julian  was  away  when  Alfons  had  "  dropped 
in"  on  Jameson,  just  as  he  had  now.  Some- 
times they  had  talked  a*  great  deal  on  news- 
paper topics,  sometimes  they  had  merely  sat  and 
smoked,  but  they  had  never  been  personal  with 
each  other. 

They  had  even  met  night  after  night  in  the 
68 


About  the  Mirror  of  the  Heart 

quiet  Terrace,  and  smoked  their  last  cigar  for 
the  day  together,  pacing  slowly  to  and  fro  ;  but 
Jameson  did  not  even  know  where  the  young 
man  lived,  in  what  house  or  in  what  apart- 
ment. He  knew  nothing  at  all  of  his  daily 
life  except  that  he  was  not  a  great  success  in 
the  financial  market,  and  that  he  had  a  sister 
who  had  saved  him  from  Antonia  Vlor,  after 
Antonia  had  all  but  drained  the  last  drop  of 
his  very  blood. 

"  I  was  down  in  the  Terrace,"  Alfons  said  in 
preface,  "  when  I  saw  your  light  —  so  I  came 
up." 

Jameson  was  innately  honest.  He  was  thinking 
of  the  desired  information,  and  he  did  not  care  to 
temporize  about  it.  He  understood  finesse,  and 
practised  it  sometimes  when  it  was  elaborate  and 
unnecessary  ;  but  with  such  an  open  nature  as  this 
unmoored  young  man  possessed,  he  employed 
a  simple  medium  of  expression  that  would  have 
been  winning  in  any  one  less  dignified.  He  had 
approached  closer  to  Alfons,  and  sat  on  the  cor- 
ner of  their  cluttered  table,  after  clearing  a  rather 
too  diminutive  edge. 

"  Strong/*  he  commenced,  the  yellow  gaslight 
showing  all  the  life-marks  on  his  earnest  face,  "  I 
want  to  ask  you  something.  That  is  why  I  was 
so  glad  to  see  you,  so  glad  you  happened  to  drop 
in.  I  am  worried  about  —  Julian,  and  I  thought 

69 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

perhaps  you  could  set  me  right  some  way,  put 
me  on  the  right   track  about  him." 

Alfons  looked  carefully  at  his  cigar. 

"  I  am  willing  to  do  anything  I  can  to  help 
you,  Jameson,"  he  replied,  "  although  I  must 
confess  it  is  a  new  role  for  me,  but  noblesse 
oblige."  He  glanced  up  at  that,  flashing  his 
faint  and  almost  continual  smile. 

"Julian  has  fallen  in  love,"  Jameson  went  on; 
"  Julian  has  fallen  in  love  with  some  one." 

He  caught  a  gleam  in  his  listener's  fine  dark 
eyes,  and  continued,  far  more  in  earnest :  — 

"  It  seems  a  simple  thing  to  make  a  fuss 
over  —  " 

"  A  very  every-day  thing,"  interposed  Alfons, 
dryly.  He  had  often  been  in  love  himself  when 
he  was  three  and  twenty.  It  had  been  a  certain 
form  of  innocent  amusement. 

Jameson  worked  more  emotion  into  his  quiet 
voice. 

"  It  is  not  the  same,  Strong,"  he  said.  "  Julian 
is  not  the  same  as  other  fellows.  He  has  a  career, 
you  know,  and  just  now  is  the  very  crisis  of  it. 
An  interruption  at  this  time  would  be  to  undo 
the  discipline  and  labor  of  all  the  'prentice  years 
when  we  just  wanted  him  to  amount  to  some- 
thing, but  were  not  sure  of  it.  I  have  n't  been 
paying  much  attention  to  him  lately.  I  thought 
he  was  working  unusually  well,  because  yesterday 

70 


About  the  Mirror  of  the  Heart 

an  Eastern  paper  offered  him  a  splendid  advance- 
ment. It  shows  he  had  climbed  from  the  local 
field,  and  could  be  on  the  great  highroad  if  he 
only  cared  to,  and  now  —  " 

Jameson  leaned  over  a  little  farther. 

"  He  has  allowed  some  ordinary  little  mortal 
to  spoil  his  chances  after  all.  Think  of  it,  Strong ; 
think  of  what  it  means  to  —  to  his  mother,  to 
the  world.  He  does  n't  seem  to  care  what  it  may 
mean  to  himself." 

"  At  what  part  of  this  confession  am  I  to  play 
mentor  ?  "  asked  Strong. 

The  smile  was  more  certain  now.  There  was 
no  curve  to  it;  it  was  merely  a  fine,  faint  line  on 
his  thin  lips. 

"  I  want  you  to  find  out  about  her  for  me. 
See  what  kind  of  a  woman  she  is,  and  if  you 
think  the  influence  lasting.  A  great  deal  de- 
pends on  that.  Can  you  think  of  any  woman 
in  the  Terrace  who  might  be  this  influence, 
Strong?  It  is  even  generally  known  that  Julian 
has  a  great  deal  of  money  coming  to  him  some 
day.  A  great  many  would  be  influenced  by  that, 
besides  —  " 

He  hesitated.  After  an  almost  imperceptible 
pause,  he  added,  "  One  is  not  even  sure  of  her 
being  a  lady." 

The  young  man  before  him  sat  looking  up. 
His  eyes  never  left  Jameson's  face  now. 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"So  much  depends  on  one's  point  of  view,"  he 
replied,  "on  what  one  calls  a  lady  or  a  gentle- 
man. It  reminds  me  of  Mrs.  O' Byrne,  your 
landlady.  Her  husband  works  on  the  police 
force;  he  is  quite  a  celebrity,  a  sergeant;  and 
they  have  one  child,  for  whom  they  are  saving 
up  all  sorts  of  money,  as  the  poor  little  brat  is 
blind.  Mrs.  O' Byrne's  ideas  on  ladies  and  gentle- 
men are  certainly  original,  and  perhaps  having 
dwelt  so  long  in  her  vicinity,  we  have  imbibed 
more  or  less  of  her  spirit.  I  can  remember  my 
little  sister,  who  died,  once  saying  to  Ludwiga, 
who  is  my  living  sister,  you  know,  c  Could  our 
mother  make  jam  tarts  crusty  ? '  and  when 
Ludwiga  was  forced  to  reply  in  the  negative,  she 
voiced  her  doubts  on  the  situation  by  asking  inno- 
cently if  mother  were  a  real  c  lady '  like  Mrs. 
O' Byrne  ?  I  think  it  was  wonderfully  expressive. 
She  was  a  very  weak  little  thing,  so  Mrs.  O'Byrne's 
arms  must  have  been  heavenly  to  her,  and  she 
made  an  apotheosis.  Whenever  I  look  at  Mrs. 
O'Byrne  now,  I  can  hear  the  child,  and  see  her 
lying  against  the  window  working  out  her  little 
problems.  My  sister  let  her  do  very  much  as 
she  pleased,  and  let  her  play  with  her  thoughts, 
if  you  can  understand  that.  That  is  Ludwiga's 
way.  Almost  the  last  words  the  little  one  said 
were  about  my  mother,  containing  the  same 
doubt.  She  wanted  to  know  if  mother  ever  wore 

72 


About  the  Mirror  of  the  Heart 

a  bonnet  covered  with  peas  and  a  rose,  —  and  a 
dolman  that  one  could  n't  lift. 

"  I  have  never  been  much  of  a  snob  since 
that,"  young  Strong  continued.  "  What  that 
little  dying  child  expounded  was  what  Socialism 
tries  so  hard  to  teach  and  generally  fails  in  doing. 
You  see  it  was  almost  like  atheism  to  the  child, 
because  she  had  been  reared  in  an  orthodox  wor- 
ship of  our  mother;  but  this  little  truth  which 
she  had  found  out  for  herself  was  too  strong,  too 
powerful  to  die  without  expression. 

"  You  see  my  mother  was  an  Italian,"  he  went 
on.  He  had  never  mentioned  any  of  his  family 
or  his  ancestry,  or  his  personal  life  before,  but  it 
seemed  the  right  time  to  do  it,  so  he  produced 
the  pathetic  little  history  very  naturally.  It  meant 
nothing  to  him  in  a  personal  sense,  but  was  to 
convey  some  news  or  some  simple  lesson  to 
Jameson. 

"  Our  mother  was  a  Florentine  lady,  belonging 
to  one  of  the  oldest  Italian  families.  She  was  a 
young  girl  fresh  from  a  Roman  Catholic  convent 
when  my  father  met  her.  He  was  an  American 
physician  of  the  old  school.  She  loved  him  from 
the  first,  deserting  home,  friends,  even  religion 
for  him.  She  was  an  exotic,  and  she  did  not  long 
survive,  but  she  left  an  atmosphere  with  us,  which 
I  cannot  describe  to  you.  My  father  was  an  old 
man  then.  He  was  many  years  her  senior,  and 

73 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

had  been  an  old  man  when  they  married.  He 
loved  her  devotedly  throughout  her  life,  and  after 
her  death  reared  us  to  honor  her  every  word,  her 
slightest  memory,  as  if  all  had  been  the  Lord's 
prayer."  He  sat  quiet  a  second.  "  It  is  a  form 
of  love,  I  suppose.'*  Then  he  continued  simply  : 
"  When  the  time  came  for  my  father  to  die  also, 
he  told  us  children  a  strange  story ;  that  our 
grandfather  had  died  in  Florence,  leaving  us  his 
money,  on  one  condition :  that  we  once  more 
accept  the  faith  of  our  fathers.  We  were  poor  at 
the  time,  our  little  sister  was  delicate,  and  very 
much  in  need  of  care,  but  even  in  the  face  of  such 
misfortune,  my  father  trusted  us  to  refuse  the 
patrimony.  We  were  in  the  grip  of  a  worship 
which  filled  us  so  entirely  that  there  was  no  room 
for  an  alternative.  It  was  very  beautiful,  but 
pagan.  It  would  have  been  better  for  the  girls 
had  they  accepted,  instead  of  refusing  a  religion 
and  a  fortune,  rather  than  impugn  the  motives 
of  her  who  was  dead.  My  father  died  soon  after, 
and  we  were  left  alone  in  that  atmosphere  of  sen- 
timent, left  to  face  the  every-day  life  of  stern 
facts.  Then  little  Grace  died.  She  was  the 
second  sister.  It  was  a  pitiful  death  at  the  time ; 
but  so  life  goes  on.  She  had  been  reared  with 
the  same  idealities  that  have  influenced  our  lives, 
yet  her  scepticism  of  my  mother's  claim  to  being 
a  lady  is  one  of  the  things  that  I  delight  to  think 

74 


About  the  Mirror  of  the  Heart 

of;  it  comes  to  me  in  a  dark  room,  at  times  when 
I  am  alone  with  my  conscience  and  a  cigarette. 
We  have  never  left  here,  —  Ludwiga  or  I ;  she 
calls  Mrs.  O' Byrne  c mother';  we  have  been 
here  for  years  and  years.  As  for  the  child,"  he 
concluded,  as  if  it  were  a  part  of  the  story,  "  it  is 
compatible  with  our  finite  ideas  of  Heaven  to 
feel  assured  that  God  set  her  doubts  at  rest  when 
she  once  got  her  feet  inside  those  gates." 

He  smiled,  and  got  up  on  his  light,  restless  feet 
and  walked  up  and  down,  while  Jameson  sat  there, 
on  the  edge  of  the  table,  looking  at  him. 

"  I  suppose  I  understand  it  all,"  Jameson  said, 
and  stopped,  not  knowing  how  to  say  any  further. 
The  young  man  who  had  worshipped  his  mother's 
life  came  over  and  halted  before  Jameson.  He 
had  a  fine  classic,  handsome  face,  with  a  rich, 
tropical  glow  of  health,  and  he  had  eyes  that 
were  large  and  dark  and  very  gentle. 

Jameson  started  when  he  looked  into  them. 
They  were  familiar  to  him,  almost  startlingly  so. 
They  had  the  Southern  beauty  of  some  eyes  that 
were  haunting  him  in  a  triumphant,  wonderful 
subconscious  manner;  but  he  just  sat  there 
absorbing  this,  uncritically.  He  did  not  think 
to  connect  the  two  pair  of  eyes  by  a  family 
resemblance. 

"  I  had  an  extra  glass  of  Burgundy  for  dinner. 
It  must  have  loosened  my  tongue  and  made  me 

75 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

sentimental  ;  and  then  when  I  came  up  here  you 
were  ignorant  about  ladies  and  gentlemen  and 
caste  and  what  not,  so  I  wanted  to  tell  you  what 
the  Terrace  really  thinks,"  Alfons  remarked. 

He  stood  laughing.  "  Then  you  see,"  he  said, 
still  with  the  simple  manner  which  was  so  utterly 
devoid  of  self-consciousness  or  any  reason  for  it, 
—  "you  see,  I  thought  the  whole  story  might 
tell  everything  to  you,  for  I  think  Julian  is  in 
love  with  my  —  sister." 

He  lost  the  smile,  and  then  he  changed  his 
mind  and  concluded  that  he  had  been  earnest 
long  enough.  Besides  this,  he  did  not  like  ear- 
nestness when  it  was  too  literal.  The  story  had 
answered  Jameson's  doubts  very  delicately,  any- 
way, so  far  as  practical  information  was  concerned. 
Julian  was  in  love  with  a  little  mortal,  but  not  an 
ordinary  little  mortal,  even  as  Americans  may 
judge.  She  was  in  poverty,  perhaps,  but  of  such 
noble  blood  that  she  had  been  able  to  refuse  a  great 
fortune  as  if  it  were  no  more  than  a  bow  for  her 
quiet  hair,  because  principle  was  involved  in  it. 
It  is  a  pretty  offering  to  the  great  republic,  Flor- 
entine cream  like  that. 

"  I  have  made  a  mess  of  the  whole  affair," 
Jameson  exclaimed  apologetically. 

"  Oh,  no,  you  have  n't,"  young  Strong  returned. 
"  Oh,  no,  you  have  n't  —  not  at  all.  I  am  amused 
by  it.  You  asked  me  with  whom  Julian  might 

76 


About  the  Mirror  of  the  Heart 

be  in  love  and  I  knew  my  sister  must  be  the  one, 
must  be  Love's  elect,  for  there  is  no  other  person 
in  the  Terrace  capable  of  such  youthful  folly. 
We  have  all  outgrown  it,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mamma 
(the  O'Byrnes),  ould  Casey  and  I  —  while  Deb- 
orah scorns  the  tender  passion." 

"  Who  is  Deborah  ?  "  Jameson  asked. 

"  Not  to  know  Deborah,"  Alfons  returned, "is 
to  have  in  store  for  yourself  an  acquaintance  which 
will  never  lag  in  interest,  any  more  than  the  En- 
cyclopedia Britannica  does,  if  one  cares  to  read  it. 
Deborah  is  a  school-teacher  who  rooms  across 
the  way.  Her  name  is  Miss  Deborah  Murphy. 
She  is  of  unknown  age  and  known  opinions.  She 
judges  people  as  if  they  were  domestic  accounts ; 
straight  little  profit  and  loss  columns.  She  be- 
lieves that  there  is  a  golden  rule  concerning  one's 
grocery  man,  and  that  as  we  do  unto  him,  so  we 
may  be  relied  upon  to  do  toward  all  creation. 
Ludwiga  has  imbibed  some  of  these  principles. 
She  is  positively  moral  and  simplex  in  her  atti- 
tude toward  our  grocer ;  but  if  there  is  one  person 
more  moral,  more  simplex  than  my  sister,  it  is 
Deborah  herself.  She  is  the  sort  of  a  person  who 
probably  has  a  pair  of  scales,  and  weighs  everything 
she  buys.  There  is  a  comfort  in  the  belief  that 
Deborah's  father  was  a  corner  grocer ;  for  other- 
wise, like  the  famous  mot,  she  is  her  own  ances- 
tor. I  believe  if  one's  father  has  been  a  corner 

77 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

grocer,  one  is  most  likely  to  remember  the  neces- 
sity of  the  scales." 

The  humor  delighted  him,  although  he  had 
produced  it.  There  hovered  his  continual  self- 
appreciative  smile. 

"  Thus  Deborah  is  not  merely  a  resident  of  the 
Terrace,  but  she  is  its  most  positive  element.  The 
rest  of  us  seem  but  as  shadows  beside  this  woman. 
She  knows,  and  acts,  and  does.  There  is  never 
a  moment  when  she  does  not  understand  herself, 
and  there  are  few  moments  when  one  has  the 
presence  of  mind  or  the  courage  to  resent 
Deborah's  understanding  one.  We  call  her  the 
Bachelor  Woman  because  she  is  so  opposed  to 
men.  She  has  even  a  unique  occupation,  and 
coaches  dull  young  men  whose  fathers  wish  them 
to  go  through  college.  In  the  general  and  ir- 
relevant ingratitudes  of  life,  there  never  has  been 
any  feeling  of  envy  for  these  gilded  sons  of 
fortune.  I  cannot  imagine  a  worse  fate  than  for 
a  young  man  with  his  head  full  of  foot-ball  to  fall 
into  Deborah's  hands.  She  would  make  a  sena- 
tor of  him  before  he  knew  it,  and  you  can  imag- 
ine the  incongruity  of  hearing  the  plaudits  of 
the  crowd  one  minute,  and  slipping  behind  a 
screen  the  next,  to  shake  your  fist  at  Deborah's 
memory  for  being  the  cause  of  your  ennui." 
He  ceased  speaking,  and  drew  himself  up.  "  You 
must  n't  stand  aloof  from  us  and  our  little  pleas- 

78 


About  the  Mirror  of  the  Heart 

ures  in  the  Terrace,  Jameson,"  he  said ;  "  some- 
time won't  you  come  in  and  meet  them  all  with 
me?" 

"  I  should  like  to  meet  your  sister,"  Jameson 
found  himself  remarking. 

"Any  evening,  then,"  returned  the  young 
man. 


79 


IX 

WHERE    LOVE    IS   SENT 

THE  next  evening  Jameson  met  Alfons 
in  the  Terrace. 
It  was  a  mild  night,  just  as  the  other 
had  been,  and  the  half-Florentine  was  again 
smoking.  Jameson  was  getting  home  late  from 
the  office,  and  it  occurred  to  his  volatile  young 
friend  that  it  was  an  excellent  occasion  for  him  to 
fulfil  his  promise,  so  he  took  the  older  man  up- 
stairs to  call  on  his  sister.  She  and  Miss  Deborah 
Murphy  were  at  home,  he  said,  serving  tea  in 
little  cups  which  made  a  man  feel  too  big  for  his 
body,  and  his  body  too  big  for  a  parlor,  and 
so  on  down  —  Jameson  went  with  him.  Love's 
elect,  as  her  brother  called  her,  lived  behind  the 
door  with  the  fine  knocker,  which  Jameson  had 
noticed  off  and  on.  The  knocker  had  a  history. 

Alfons  called  it  a  fine  Roman  knocker  that  he 
had  once  bought  at  a  curio  shop  to  conciliate  the 
woman  of  his  household,  and  had  taken  home  to 
her,  saying :  — 

"  The  fellow  said  that  he  thought  you  would 
like  it ;  at  least  he  said  it  matched  those  Roman 

80 


Where  Love  is  Sent 

guard  dogs  we  bought  last  year.  He  said  it  was 
live  hundred  years  old  if  a  day.  Funny  —  marked 
Cleveland  —  damn  the  fellow,  did  —  Columbus 
discover  Cleveland  five  hundred  years  ago  or 
not?" 

She  had  been  rather  young  at  that  stage,  barely 
out  of  short  dresses  and  pig-tails,  and  had  not 
known  exactly  how  to  accept  either  his  gift  or  his 
remarks,  so  she  had  kissed  him  and  said  very 
sweetly,  very  simply  and  politely:  — 

"Thank  you,  Fons,"  waiving  the  deeper 
question  until  she  had  learned  about  it. 

It  was  very  pathetic,  considered  from  a  higher 
plane ;  but  when  he  was  wont  to  come  home, 
after  his  jolly  times  with  his  gay  compan- 
ions, sometimes  moved  by  wine,  and  look  into 
her  great  solemn  eyes,  or  notice  the  singular 
soberness  of  her  mouth,  he  did  not  think 
much  of  the  tragedy  in  it.  She  was  so  solemn 
and  wide-eyed  that  he  used  to  make  Bacchanalian 
addresses  such  as  that,  merely  to  shock  her,  and 
he  called  her  "  his  little  scapegoat  of  Bohemia  " 
too.  He  was  artistic  in  his  bestowal  of  the  title. 
It  was  such  a  funny,  such  a  deeply  humorous 
name  to  give  a  colorless,  deep-eyed  little  thing 
with  an  alpaca  dress  on,  standing  like  a  cast  of 
Silence. 

As  they  ascended  the  stairs  together,  Jameson 
felt  a  difference  between  the  atmosphere  of  his 
6  81 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

and  Julian's  house  and  this  one.  There  was  a 
warmth  and  kindliness  of  welcome  even  in  the 
humble  hall,  while  their  place  seemed  always  bare 
and  smelled  noticeably  of  tobacco. 

This  place  smelled  of  smoke  also,  but  it  was 
not  in  the  same  jealous  and  unyielding  way  that 
Lady  Nicotine  ruled  their  household ;  here  a  man 
might  have  smoked  after  dinner,  his  mind  at  peace, 
his  feet  encased  in  home-like  slippers. 

This  same  cleanliness  and  cheeriness  of  impres- 
sion characterized  everything  as  they  progressed. 

When  they  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs,  they 
went  into  a  small  room  off  the  dark  hall,  a  room 
though  small  yet  brightly  lighted,  where  a  girl 
with  white  supple  hands  was  playing  one  of 
Mendelssohn's  "Songs  without  Words"  on  a 
small  upright  piano.  The  girl  was  not  making 
labor  of  it,  even  pleasant  labor,  —  she  was  playing 
well,  yet  without  any  effort,  just  as,  according  to 
her  face,  she  might  have  acted.  It  was  not  a 
plain  face,  so  much  as  one  which  was  nearly 
negative,  and  wholly  neutral,  and  not  a  young 
face.  It  evidently  was  not  a  new  piano  either, 
for  as  the  two  men  stood  at  the  door  a  moment, 
an  infirm  brass  candlestick,  which  served  to  throw 
light  on  its  mellow  keys,  toppled  over,  and  Julian 
sprang  to  the  rescue;  but  before  he  could  reach 
the  piano,  a  girl  in  a  terra-cotta  gown  had  stepped 
forward  and  put  it  to  rights  again.  She  had  been 

82 


Where  Love  is  Sent 

leaning  near,  absorbing  the  melody,  an  unnoticed 
figure,  but  the  ready  act  forced  her  into  a  livelier 
recognition.  Also,  it  suggested  a  vivid  contrast 
with  the  fair-haired  performer,  who  was  of  that 
class  of  Americans  which  retains  the  distinguishing 
feature  of  its  ancestry.  In  many  peoples  this  is 
never  entirely  obliterated,  —  a  Celtic  lip,  a  Gallic 
mouth,  or  a  Southern  skin,  is  often  passed  through 
more  generations  than  is  quite  welcome  to  the 
descendants. 

The  girl  who  had  righted  the  candlestick  was 
of  foreign  birth,  and  would  always  remain  so,  but 
the  musician  might  have  passed  for  a  German, 
had  she  not  lacked  all  that  rare  musical  absorp- 
tion which  marks  the  Teutonic  peoples.  Then 
her  calm  was  of  the  British  sort,  and  the  sudden 
rare  smile  she  bent  on  her  friend,  wholly  Irish  ; 
so  after  a  little  study  she  became  an  American, 
undeniably  an  American. 

Alfons  stood  back  a  little,  still  with  that  in- 
scrutable smile. 

"  The  girl  at  the  piano  is  Deborah,"  he  whis- 
pered. During  all  the  time  that  Deborah's  song 
kept  on,  the  home-like  little  group  did  not  vary 
its  position.  They  all  stood  there  listening. 
Julian  had  smiled  at  Jameson  when  they  ap- 
peared, and  then  he  had  sunk  back  again,  with  a 
rapt  fine  air,  and  with  half-closed  lids,  responsive 
to  the  message  in  the  music. 

83 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

Deborah's  hands  grew  still.  It  was  then,  as 
Alfons  stood  by  the  door,  that  the  other  girl 
turned  her  face  toward  them.  She  was  a  young 
girl,  her  age  not  yet  lost,  as  might  be  said  of  Miss 
Deborah  Murphy's.  She  approached  the  young 
men  naturally.  When  she  came  quite  near, 
Alfons  stretched  out  an  affectionate  hand  toward 
her. 

"  La  Belle  Dame  sans  Merci,  Mr.  Jameson," 
he  said  gravely.  It  was  the  only  introduction 
they  had,  and  she  did  not  understand  it,  but  ac- 
cepted it  as  she  did  the  many  mocking  jests  of 
her  brother.  Other  than  this  welcome  from 
Alfons's  sister,  Jameson's  appearance  did  not 
produce  any  very  noticeable  stir  in  the  parlor. 
Deborah  bowed  distantly  from  the  keys,  and  then 
turned  again  to  them.  The  pale  profile  was 
without  expression,  for  all  seemed  to  go  into  the 
music.  Julian  listened,  and  Alfons  Strong  went 
nearer  to  listen  also.  Jameson  did  not  seat  him- 
self. After  he  had  placed  a  chair  for  Ludwiga, 
he  stood  somewhat  near  her,  keeping  his  eyes  on 
her  almost  as  if  he  were  studying  her  face.  The 
gaze  did  not  seem  to  disturb  her,  as  she  kept  her 
own  eyes  raised  to  him,  while  her  entire  manner 
was  free  from  any  self-consciousness.  It  was  as 
if  her  short  life  held  no  thought  or  act  that  would 
not  bear  the  light  of  day.  Jameson  had  flushed 
a  trifle  at  Alfons's  jest,  but  all  the  time  the  girl 

84 


Where  Love  is  Sent 

talked  to  him  there  was  none  of  that  facial  play 
which  was  so  characteristic  of  herself  and  her 
brother.  The  calm  never  seemed  to  break  nor 
the  self-reserve  yield  to  any  occasional  ripple  of 
emotions. 

After  a  certain  lapse  of  time,  Jameson  realized 
that  neither  had  spoken,  and  although  he  laid  the 
omission  to  Deborah's  music,  he  said :  — 

"  I  saw  you  last  evening  in  the  Terrace.  I  re- 
member your  eyes." 

Her  expression  changed  swiftly.  In  her  full 
face  she  was  more  like  the  Diirer  conception  of 
women,  as  if  the  Italian  type  had  been  changed 
by  an  international  marriage,  although  it  was  the 
contour  that  had  been  affected  more  than  any  in- 
dividual feature. 

"  I  saw  you  too,"  she  answered.  "  I  have 
seen  you  nearly  every  evening  for  two  months." 

"  If  I  were  conventional,"  he  replied,  "  I  sup- 
pose I  should  tell  you  that  I  saw  you  two  months 
ago  also.  It  would  not  be  truthful,  but  women 
don't  often  care  to  go  below  the  surface." 

"  Maybe  you  knew  that  I  am  too  clever  for 
that  one  speech,"  she  replied.  "  Every  evening 
you  looked  as  if  you  were  walking  in  your 
sleep." 

She  did  not  realize  until  his  next  remark  that 
his  words  had  been  merely  a  continuation  of  the 
study  he  had  been  making  of  her  face. 

8s 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  did  not  defer  any  pleasantry 
because  you  were  so  clever  as  to  know  all  about 
me  before  I  called.  I  really  wanted  to  see  if  you 
did  not  dislike  truth  a  little  bit  after  all,  like 
other  women." 

"  That  is  making  me  very  good,  I  think,"  she 
answered  simply.  "  I  do  not  deserve  all  it  im- 
plies exactly,  because  the  only  reason  I  dislike 
compliments  is  that  I  always  believe  them." 

"  Most  women  like  pretty  speeches,"  he  filled 
in,  "because  society  demands  perfect  harmony 
of  ear  and  eye  and  senses.  They  do  not  care 
how  much  truth  is  in  them.  What  do  you 
like  —  " 

She  smiled  with  that  faint  expression  of  her 
brother's  in  her  face. 

"  There  are  times  when  I  might  confess  to  the 
pretty  speeches,  but  just  now,  as  I  am  looking  at 
you,  I  think  I  prefer  your  kind  of  truth,  so  we 
were  only  acquainted  from  last  evening." 

He  went  over  to  the  piano  after  her.  She  had 
spoken  simply,  with  no  attempt  at  brilliancy. 
The  little  conversation  had  been  child's  play  to 
the  ponderous  thoughts  from  many  minds  that 
were  dry  as  dust  of  late  to  him.  He  played 
Atlas  to  a  great  journal,  and  he  was  thrown  in 
contact  with  more  or  less  notable  intellects,  but  it 
was  all  like  the  ball-room  compliments.  Much 
of  the  output  of  the  best  mental  force  is  either  a 

86 


Where  Love  is  Sent 

fencing-match  of  wits,  or  a  filling  in  of  space  with 
no  motive  for  human  good  lurking  beneath  the 
empty  phrases.  He  had  liked  his  study  of  her 
face.  It  had  come  in  beside  Antonia's,  and  was 
to  represent  to  him  the  great  power  in  the  world 
that  can  be  wielded  by  women  for  good. 

Again  he  felt  singularly  acquainted  with  her, 
long  after  realizing  it  was  a  vicarious  acquaintance. 
Julian  had  been  telling  him  of  her  for  "  two 
months  and  three  days  of  evenings,"  and  facts 
came  back  to  Jameson  now  for  which  there 
was  no  other  explanation,  facts  which  he  had 
absorbed  those  nights  when  he  had  not  seemed 
to  be  listening.  It  was  all  conscious  now,  in  one 
rush,  like  revelation.  He  knew  that  she  lived 
next  door,  and  that  she  believed  in  compensation, 
and  one  night  when  she  was  bitterly  downcast  over 
her  brother  or  something  —  "blue,"  was  what 
Julian  called  it,  —  she  had  believed  in  compensa- 
tion still !  in  good  and  in  silver  linings.  And  one 
other  night,  when  compensation  was  rather  slow 
paying  dividends,  she  had  made  over  a  last  year's 
hat,  "  with  her  own  hands,  Jameson  !  "  (Just  to 
be  cynical  I  put  that  in,  lest  we  have  forgotten 
what  we  may  have  said  during  that  tender  period.) 

Jameson  could  not  forget  this ;  for  had  not 
Julian,  coming  man  of  art,  and  so  forth,  leaned 
forward  that  same  night  in  their  own  apartment 
and  said,  as  if  life  or  death  depended  on  it, 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  Some  wings  were  missing  —  cant  a  man  give  a 
girl  wings  for  her  hat  ?  " 

A  man  —  young  Julian  ? 

Then  another  day,  when  they  were  taking  a 
good  masculine  lunch  together,  Julian  had  leaned 
across  their  little  table,  his  knife  deep  in  an  un- 
poetic  beefsteak :  — 

"  The  girl  works  sometimes  in  a  dirty  office, 
and  takes  her  lunch  in  a  piece  of  brown  paper  — 
imagine  the  girl  there,  Jameson  !  " 

And  so  on,  and  so  on,  without  end. 

Alfons,  relieved  of  his  social  duties,  had  gone 
over  and  appropriated  the  position  made  vacant 
by  his  sister  at  the  piano,  beside  the  half-Irish 
girl.  He  was  now  himself  an  idler,  an  observer, 
a  beautiful  handiwork  of  the  Creator,  as  yet  out- 
side the  intense,  earnest  purpose  of  creation.  He 
was  not  moved  by  Deborah's  music,  as  his  sister 
had  been,  but  by  Deborah's  interpretation  of  it, 
rather,  —  her  performance  of  it,  I  should  say.  She 
had  changed  now,  and  was  producing  the  music, 
much  as  water  ripples,  of  its  own  accord,  merely. 
Thus,  with  Deborah's  ability,  it  was  a  perfection 
of  the  mechanical,  often  carrying  none  of  herself 
with  it. 

"  Why  are  you  playing? "  asked  Alfons,  after 
a  second  or  two. 

"  Oh,  there  is  nothing  else  to  do,"  she  replied 
in  an  even  voice. 

88 


Where  Love  is  Sent 

"  No  one  is  listening,"  he  remarked  yet  again. 

"You  are,"  she  replied  in  the  same  precise 
accents. 

"That  is  very  praiseworthy,"  exclaimed  the 
young  man,  "and  indicative  of  your  careful 
attention  to  details ;  but  you  are  mistaken ;  I  was 
not  listening  to  the  music.  I  did  not  even  know 
what  you  were  playing ;  I  was  admiring  you." 

She  went  on  playing  persistently,  nor  seemed 
to  mind  him,  but  after  a  little  she  said,  just  as 
impersonally,  "  my  skill." 

He  accepted  the  correction  without  demur. 
"  Yes,  your  skill.  I  was  wondering  from  what 
wonderful  source  it  came,  —  such  a  flow  of  sound, 
such  genius." 

They  often  indulged  in  pleasantries  about  her 
birth,  as  he  felt  it  was  the  only  theme  that  kept 
them  acquainted ;  for  without  this  bond  they 
might  have  become  strangers  all  over  again,  after 
each  interview,  as  there  was  little  of  common 
interest  between  them.  Deborah  received  his 
words  in  the  usual  spirit.  His  tone  was  light, 
it  is  true,  but  he  had  meant  the  utterance. 

"  You  were  wondering,  I  suppose,  which  of 
my  ancestors  was  an  organ-grinder,"  she  said  to 
him.  "  The  flow  of  sound  is  analogous  to  a 
barrel-organ,  clearly  so." 

"  Your  remark  is  clever  also,"  he  returned 
politely,  but  at  the  same  time  twisted  his  mous- 

89 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

tache  vexedly.  The  girl  had  a  gown  that  sat  on 
her  with  good  grace,  and  this  appealed  to  him  in 
her  behalf.  It  was  light,  rather  too  like  her 
hair  and  face,  but  the  general  colorlessness  was 
harmonious. 

He  was  fully  aware  that  Deborah  did  not 
approve  of  him,  nor  his  life,  nor  his  morals,  and 
in  return,  he  thought  she  was  totally  uninterest- 
ing, save  through  that  same  dislike.  It  was 
the  only  interesting  quality  which  she  seemed  to 
possess,  and  it  piqued  him. 

Failing  to  circumvent  it,  he  found  himself  face 
to  face  with  her  disapproval,  yet  submitting  to  it 
because  he  was  too  vain  to  turn  away  and  leave 
her  opinions  of  him  undisturbed.  In  other  words, 
failing  to  trap  his  foe,  and  having  no  ammunition 
strong  enough  to  vanquish  it,  he  contented  him- 
self with  small  shot  in  its  direction.  This  con- 
soled the  vanity  of  which  I  speak,  but  he  was  not 
always  pleased  with  the  result. 

He  observed  to-night  that  the  lines  of  her  face 
were  colder,  the  skin  was  less  exuberant  of  bloom 
and  texture  than  Ludwiga's.  Ludwiga  was  like 
one  of  those  silly  flowers  growing  in  the  shade, 
nurtured  by  the  great  beliefs  and  purposes  of  life, 
believing  implicitly  in  all  of  them.  If  these 
waters  should  be  denied  her,  she  would  not  get 
enough  nutriment  from  the  soil,  and  would  fade 
and  die,  —  but  this  strange  Deborah  !  She  would 

90 


Where  Love  is  Sent 

grow  in  an  arid  plain  like  a  cactus,  —  she  would 
need  no  rain  or  bloom  or  sun  around  her,  —  she 
could  live  so,  on  to  the  bitter  end.  Perhaps  she 
would  even  put  forth  a  gorgeous  flower,  and 
thrive  on  the  desert,  though  starved  within,  just 
as  she  lived  in  this  dull  Terrace,  playing  her 
wonderful  arias  and  nocturnes  as  if  they  were  the 
multiplication-table,  nothing  more  or  less  to  her. 

He  wondered  if  she  really  were  as  starved  of 
love  and  hope  within  as  the  cactus  would  be  of 
its  form  of  food,  proper  soil,  and  moisture. 

She  was  so  unsympathetic,  so  incomprehensible, 
so  unreachable. 

Jameson  came  up,  as  he  was  engaged  in  this 
introspection,  and  in  looking  over  the  selections 
of  music  thrown  carelessly  on  the  piano,  chose 
one  and  placed  it  in  position  for  her.  He  did 
not  study  the  performer,  but  appreciated  the 
accompaniment.  The  piece  was  "  Zu  Deinen 
Fussen  "  (At  Thy  Feet). 

The  half-Florentine  still  stood  with  his  gaze 
concentrated  on  a  spot  between  the  brass  candle- 
sticks, then  inspiration  toward  speech  came  to 
him.  "  Had  I  asked  you  to  play  that  for  me," 
he  remarked,  when  no  one  seemed  to  be  listen- 
ing to  them,  "  what  would  you  have  done, 
Deborah  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  should  not  have  played  it,"  she  re- 
plied, quite  as  gently  as  he  had  asked  it. 

9' 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  It  is  a  sorrowful  habit  to  be  an  old  bachelor," 
he  quoted  back  to  her,  "  else  I  might  be  moved 
to  say,  then  do  not  play  it  for  any  one  else." 

He  turned  away,  so  she  lost  the  trembling 
earnestness  in  his  eyes ;  but  that  night,  when 
she  was  leaving,  Deborah  collected  her  music, 
piece  after  piece,  "  Zu  Deinen  Fiissen  "  upper- 
most. 

Once  home  in  the  neat  little  apartment  where 
she  dwelt,  she  hid  it  again  in  the  middle  of  the 
others,  but  changed  her  mind  and  placed  it  again 
on  top.  It  seemed  to  haunt  her,  but  at  last  she 
folded  it  neatly  and  put  it  away ;  so  that  it  might 
never,  never  be  used  again.  Poor  Deborah  ! 
We  have  all  done  these  things  ;  but  — 

In  the  cold  unsympathetic  light  of  the  morning 
she  tore  the  leaves  of  "  Zu  Deinen  Fiissen  "  into 
shreds,  and  life  for  her  went  on  as  usual. 


92 


STRAY   THOUGHTS 

JAMESON  had  gone  out  from  the  Strong 
parlor  a  different  man  from  the  one  who 
had  entered  it  that  same  evening. 

He  did  not  know  where  the  change  was.  When 
they  once  more  stood  under  the  St.  Josephs  on 
Mrs.  O'Byrne's  chandelier,  Julian  had  inquired 
abruptly,  "  Jame,  do  you  like  the  girl  ?  Here 
they  call  her  the  girl  who  was  born  a  lady." 

"  She  has  evidently  kept  herself  one  as  well, 
under  rather  trying  circumstances." 

"  Say,  that  is  fine  !  It  is  splendidly  put  of  you, 
old  fellow.  Of  course,  you  do  not  think  she  is 
pretty ;  no  one  does.  Even  an  artist  would  not 
think  her  pretty,  unless  he  —  loved  her!" 

It  was  perfect  egotism,  that,  —  the  state  when 
there  are  only  two  people  in  the  world,  and  you 
are  a  part  of  the  delusion. 

"  There  is  a  way  to  her  hair  which  is  pretty  of 
itself,"  Jameson  answered. 

"  I  never  noticed  her  hair  very  much,"  Julian 
returned,  his  voice  gone  rather  flat  of  a  sudden. 
"  I  think  she  has  some  fine  features  taken  sepa- 

93 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

rately,  but  not  set  so  as  to  make  the  best  impres- 
sion, and  she  can  wear  an  old  serge  in  a  Florentine 
humor,  which  is  style  of  a  sort,  Jameson ;  but  I 
never  noticed  her  hair  or  the  way  of  it." 

He  used  Jameson's  own  phrase  as  if  it  hurt 
him,  then  stopped  talking,  somewhat  abruptly, 
and  thought  about  it.  He  wished  he  had  noticed 
the  way  of  her  hair  also,  and  it  would  have  con- 
tributed to  his  development  if  he  were  versed  in 
telepathy  and  could  have  known  of  Jameson's 
discovery  of  a  line  near  her  mouth,  which  her 
husband  would  some  day  want  to  erase  with  kisses 
and  loving  kindness. 

When  Jameson  was  all  but  undressed  that 
evening,  Julian  appeared  at  his  bedroom  door. 
"  When  the  girl  walked  toward  you  this  evening, 
it  was  as  if  Love  and  Italy  were  producing  an 
exquisite  cameo  —  " 

cc  Confound  you,"  Jameson  cried,  throwing  a 
shoe  toward  him.  It  lay  there  after  the  boy  had 
withdrawn,  for  he  made  no  effort  to  stir.  He 
sat  on  the  side  of  his  bed,  and  once  he  asked  the 
furniture  around  and  about  him  :  — 

"  If  she  is  Julian's  girl,  if  each  man  has  just 
the  one  woman,  why  did  I  think  of  that  too  ?  " 

In  the  other  room  Julian  was  whistling.  It 
was  like  a  canary  singing  in  the  middle  of  the 
night. 

The  man  went  back  to  his  dismal  office,  but 
94 


Stray  Thoughts 

some  atmosphere,  not  an  outer  one,  was  changed 
for  him.  Life  was  more  endurable.  He  had 
something  beautiful  to  conjure  when  he  was  sick 
unto  death  of  the  office,  of  a  certain  number  of 
pigeon-holes  which  represented  his  past  life  to 
him,  and  a  certain  disordered  pile  that  seemed  to 
represent  the  thirty-five  years  which  were  still 
coming  to  him  according  to  the  Old  Testament. 
He  thought  it  might  be  caused  by  having  met 
such  a  musical  genius  as  Deborah.  She  seemed 
to  have  filled  all  life  with  sound  and  melody. 

About  Friday  of  the  same  week,  Julian  went 
into  the  man's  inner  office.  He  looked  so  boy- 
ish and  so  handsome  that  he  did  one's  heart 
good.  He  had  on  an  old  coat  decorated  with 
ink  ;  in  fact,  it  had  evidently  been  used  for  a 
pen-wiper;  but  when  he  leaned  over  Jameson's 
desk,  his  wavy  brown  hair,  his  clean-shaven  face, 
and  buoyancy  of  spirit  dispelled  material  impres- 
sions entirely. 

He  laid  a  coin  on  the  desk,  smiling.  "  I  '11 
give  you  that  fiver  if  you  will  tell  me  of  what 
you  were  thinking  when  I  came  in,"  he  said. 

Jameson  pocketed  the  coin.  "  I  was  thinking 
of  life,"  he  replied,  "  of  life  as  we  have  known  it, 
of  people  who  were  not  earnest  or  honest  and  did 
not  care  whether  they  were  or  not,  and  then  I 
thought  of  one  girl  trying  to  stay  the  mad  crowd 
of  Bohemia." 

95 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

Julian  laughed  outright  at  him. 

"  If  she  were  n't  my  girl,"  he  exclaimed,  "  you  'd 
have  to  buy  a  marriage  license." 

Before  he  went  out  he  said,  "  When  you  re- 
turn that  five,  I  will  give  it  back  to  you  for  an 
inspiration." 

Jameson  went  back  to  his  work,  while  off  in 
his  own  room  Julian  drew  the  figure  of  a  woman. 
She  was  slight  and  stood  with  uplifted  hands.  It 
was  as  if  in  the  midst  of  eternal  ways  she  stood 
with  those  small  hands  raised  in  protest,  staying 
the  mad,  surging  crowd  of  Bohemia.  In  her  eyes 
was  the  strength  God  unaccountably  gives  us  who 
are  faintest  hearted  and  would  otherwise  "flee 
from  the  cross." 


96 


XI 
SUNDAY 

SUNDAY  is  a  great  day  in  the  Terrace. 
All  over  the  city  those  people  who  have 
labored  throughout  the  week  turn  out  in 
many-colored  masses  Sunday.  They  crowd  the 
street-cars  and  cross  the  quiet  bay  in  heavily 
freighted  ferry-boats,  or  they  may  be  seen  lying 
on  the  beach  out  where  the  waters  of  the  Pacific 
creep  up  the  sand  to  them,  friendly,  smiling  as 
seems  everything  just  then.  Toward  evening 
many  have  drunk  more  than  is  good  for  them, 
most  likely,  and  there  are  sharp  words  or  blows, 
or  some  unrestful  happenings ;  but  during  the 
day  it  is  all  relaxation  and  enjoyment. 

Naturally  this  flitting  toward  the  suburbs 
leaves  many  home  districts  silent  and  deserted. 
The  Terrace  is  in  this  class.  The  last  persons  to 
join  the  happy  world  were  Mr.  Papa  and  his  son, 
both  clad  in  their  Sunday  garments  and  shining 
morning  faces,  as  well  as  red  cravats.  (Mr.  Papa 
always  wore  red  cravats  just  three  or  four  shades 
brighter  than  his  kind,  warm  complexion.) 

It  was  on   Sunday  that  Jameson,  in  his  own 
room,  suddenly  was  brought  face  to  face  with  his 
7  97 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

own  thoughts.  He  still  believed  that  Julian 
would  ruin  his  own  life  if  his  pursuit  of  art  were 
interrupted,  but  Jameson  had  lost  interest  in  the 
boy's  career  somewhat.  He  did  not  feel  the 
same  violence  of  grief  and  disappointment  about 
Julian's  position  in  the  matter ;  and  as  for  Mrs. 
Joy,  he  had  forgotten  that  she  was  in  existence. 

He  was  arguing  with  himself  the  reason  of  this 
state  of  mind  when  Mrs.  O'Byrne  came  in  on 
her  morning  rounds,  as  care-taker.  This  mental 
condition,  he  had  concluded  to  himself,  was  be- 
cause his  emotions  for  other  people  were  worn 
out  to  some  extent.  He  would  do  just  as  much 
for  them,  of  course,  and  do  it  just  as  conscien- 
tiously as  ever ;  but  Julian  had  evidently  drained 
the  supply  at  last. 

It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  did  not 
pursue  the  subject  further.  He  had  given  all  he 
possessed  to  the  boy,  and  to  the  goddess  for 
Julian,  and  now  he  had  done  all  he  could ;  but 
personally  he  had  no  bitterness  about  Julian's 
way  of  receiving  this  long-continued  kindness. 
If  you  can  understand  the  thing,  it  made  him 
and  Julian  more  equal,  not  bound  by  the  same 
tender  tie  of  love  and  obligation  as  formerly. 

Mrs.  O'Byrne  was  a  kindly  woman.  She 
spread  their  beds  and  otherwise  tidied  up  their 
rooms,  and  then  she  surprised  Jameson.  She 
paused  near  the  copper-colored  hair  and  said 

98 


Sunday 

briskly,  "  Why  don't  ye  go  up  to  the  sun  attic, 
Mr.  Jameson,  where  the  young  people  be?  " 

He  looked  up  almost  in  a  startled  way. 

No  one  had  ever  thought  he  was  young,  even 
when  he  was  so,  and  a  feeling  of  surprise  came 
over  him,  there  being  an  element  of  gratitude  as 
well  in  the  emotion  which  was  new  to  him. 

"  Oh,  they  do  not  miss  me,"  he  answered. 
"  I  'm  an  old  fellow  to  be  around  young  people." 

Mrs.  O' Byrne  gave  a  hearty  laugh. 

"O'Byrnewas  six  years  older  nor  you,  no  less, 
when  he  discovered  a  red  rose  in  a  woman's  bon- 
net," she  replied  with  a  rollicking  hopefulness  to 
her  tones ;  and  she  shook  her  duster  at  him,  in  the 
exuberance  of  the  recollection. 

He  sat  quite  still,  his  eyes  looking  up,  but  his 
figure  still  bent  over  the  paper. 

"  Up  in  the  attic,"  he  asked  her,  "  what  do 
they  do?" 

"  The  sun  is  coming  in,  and  on  these  cool  days 
it  warms  one,  through  and  through,"  she  replied, 
smiling  gladly  throughout  her  portrayal  of  this 
mental  picture,  "and  sometimes  my  silly  little 
laddie  is  downstairs  with  his  accordion,  and  the 
sounds  come  up  between  talk  with  them,  at  which 
Miss  Deborah  winces  because  of  the  fine  way  she 
plays  them  same  tunes.  Our  little  lad  is  blind, 
you  know.  Mr.  Fons  lies  on  the  couch  and 
smokes,  and  when  he  wants  to  stir  himself  he 

99 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

teases  Miss  Deborah,  who  is  reading  or  writing. 
He  has  a  gay  tongue,  well  hung  in  the  middle, 
has  Mr.  Alfons.  Then,  off  a  bit"  (here  she 
winked  again  in  her  hearty  fashion),  "  Mr.  Julian 
makes  as  if  he  were  drawing  for  dear  life,  and 
Miss  Ludwiga  a-helping  him.  An*  once  when  I 
was  dusting,  did  n't  I  hear  her  say  to  him :  c  You 
keep  drawing  the  one  face  over  and  over.  It  is 
not  progressing,  Julian  dear  ! '  and  him  to  answer 
that  earnest  as  if  he  believed  it,  the  bonny  fellow, 
that  it  was  some  great  painter  chap  he  was  after 
following,  to  draw  one  head  until  he  had  that 
perfect ! " 

She  put  her  hands  to  her  hips,  and  shook  with 
merriment  at  the  thought  of  it,  merriment  quite 
as  kindly  as  it  was  merry,  and  which  beamed  from 
her  eyes  past  all  mistaking. 

Jameson  rose  to  his  feet,  placed  a  paper-weight 
on  his  unfinished  work,  closed  his  ink-bottle,  and 
did  those  careful  little  things  which  men  in  a 
measure  neglect.  Then  he  asked:  "Where  is 
the  sun  attic?"  to  her  intense  enjoyment,  for 
she  pointed  it  out  to  him,  and  then  went  down- 
stairs longing  to  tell  it  to  O'Byrne.  She  forgot  it 
for  hours,  and  ended  by  nudging  him  when  he 
was  taking  his  most  peaceful  sleep,  as  he  worked 
on  the  night  force;  and  when  he  was  but  half- 
awake,  she  called  into  his  ear :  "  I  '11  be  buying 
organs  wholesale,  after  a  little,"  for  she  thought 

100 


Sunday 

every  respectable  young  married  couple  should 
possess  one  ;  this  being  also  a  joke  to  O'Byrne 
(both  to  his  taste  and  his  pocket),  as  he  approved 
of  her  liking  to  see  all  the  young  people  marry. 
It  was  a  pleasant  reflection,  and  compensated  for 
any  broken  slumber. 

The  sun  attic  was  a  long  room  of  glass  which 
topped  the  blind  baby's  inheritance.  It  was  a 
room  cramped  as  to  roof,  now  I  come  to  think 
of  it,  and  suggested,  "Why  should  the  spirit  of 
mortal  be  proud  ? "  for  it  bent  one's  head  all  of 
a  sudden,  and  but  narrowly  prevented  more  fatal 
denouements  to  one's  existence.  Julian's  opinion 
joined  the  unanimous  verdict,  but  his  exuberance 
did  the  rest.  The  lights  were  poor,  he  said,  and 
the  ceiling  antagonistic  to  genius,  but  an  artist 
and  a  studio  should  fraternize.  It  was  more 
shoppy. 

There  was  no  gainsaying  that;  so  here  it  was 
that  Lewis  Jameson  found  them.  He  found 
Alfons  executing  Beardsley  effects  with  his  foot, 
Deborah  poring  over  some  accounts,  and  Lud- 
wiga  and  Julian  at  the  far  end  of  the  attic.  They 
were  too  distant  for  him  to  hear  what  was  said 
or  to  see  what  they  were  doing.  He  found  a 
seat,  and  tried  to  be  interested  in  the  two  young 
people  nearest  him. 

"  Do  none  of  us  ever  go  to  church  ?  —  indeed, 
101 


T          (    t     I       ( 

The  Siege  of  Youth 

yes,"  answered  the  irrepressible  brother  of  Lud- 
wiga,  "  Deborah  does.  She  goes  to  early  Mass, 
in  her  best  gown,  which  is  gray  and  white  like  a 
Puritan  maiden's,  and  once  there,  she  prays,  — 
such  prayers ! "  with  a  side  look  at  her  as  he 
talked ;  but  Deborah  smiled  not,  nor  spoke,  nor 
stirred. 

When  he  continued,  it  was  a  little  Italian 
prayer  he  had  picked  up  somewhere :  " '  I  pray 
that  I  may  never  be  married.  But  if  I  marry,  I 
pray  that  I  may  never  be  deceived.  But  if  I  am 
deceived,  I  pray  that  I  may  not  know  it.  But  if 
I  know  of  it,  I  pray  that  I  may  be  able  to  laugh 
at  the  whole  affair  ! '  " 

He  smiled  once  more  as  he  thus  concluded,  but 
the  girl  did  not.  She  sat  with  that  pale  calm  on 
her  fair  skin,  undisturbed,  as  if  she  had  not  heard 
him ;  but  this  did  not  disconcert  the  young  man 
in  the  least,  for  he  presently  continued :  "  Evi- 
dently, I  am  not  in  good  form  with  my  compan- 
ions this  morning.  Julian  wanted  to  do  me  up 
as  a  Spanish  gladiator  of  some  description,  as  far 
as  I  could  learn,  like  a  barber-pole,  but  my  self- 
esteem  opposed  it.  Then  they  fell  into  a  dis- 
cussion on  some  man  with  inharmonious  eyes, 
and  after  one  had  contended  that  his  hair  should 
harmonize  with  his  eyes,  and  another  that  his 
eyes  should  harmonize  with  his  hair,  I  tried  to 
pour  oil  on  the  troubled  waters  for  them,  and 

1 02 


Sunday 

suggested  that  the  sympathy  was  doubtless  es- 
tablished between  his  eyes  and  his  soul.  But 
still  they  were  not  grateful ;  envious,  rather,  of 
my  greater  intellectuality.  Such/'  he  concluded, 
"  is  human  nature." 

Deborah  raised  her  eyes  with  a  certain  pretty 
grace  to  Jameson.  She  would  not  have  smiled 
at  Alfons  for  the  world,  but  she  was  by  turns 
angered,  bored,  entertained  by  him.  She  spoke 
much  as  she  would  to  one  of  her  athletic  pupils, 
when  he  grew  a  bit  tiresome. 

"  Perhaps  Mr.  Jameson  does  not  think  that 
question  any  more  vital  than  your  incongruous 
name,  Alfons.  Their  father  had  two  dear  friends," 
she  explained  to  Jameson,  "  both  Germans,  and 
in  the  early  days  of  their  friendship  he  prom- 
ised to  name  his  children  after  them.  It  is 
quite  correct  and  euphonious  too,  but  I  have 
often  wondered  what  he  would  have  done  had 
the  second  Herr  been  named  Heine,  or  Johann, 
or  Augustin." 

Alfons  smiled  at  her,  but  he  was  vexed.  He 
spent  half  his  time  rallying  Deborah :  but  at  any 
polite  retaliation  on  her  part,  he  was  cast  into  an 
utterly  inexplicable  state  of  vexation.  Still,  he 
said,  as  if  he  were  not  in  earnest,  "  Signorina 
Heinette  Strong,  Eureka  Terrace,  San  Francisco, 
California,  United  States  of  America.  The  Eu- 
reka is  not  municipal,  Jameson,  but  it  is  historical, 

103 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

and  was  given  by  a  former  resident  of  our  dwell- 
ing, when  he  discovered  his  keyhole  one  early 
morning."  Deborah  did  not  approve  of  this 
either,  but  it  did  not  affect  the  young  man,  as 
he  was  aware  of  her  disapproval  before  he  had 
spoken. 

Jameson  went  across  the  room  where  the 
younger  couple  were  talking.  Julian  sat  grace- 
fully at  a  table,  drawing,  while  the  girl  stood  by 
an  open  window. 

"  Julian  was  drawing  something  fine  and  classic, 
Mr.  Jameson,"  she  said.  "  He  has  drawn  a  tiled 
wall,  and  under  a  very  effective  Latin  border  he 
is  to  put  a  woman's  figure  —  " 

Julian  glanced  at  her  quickly.  She  caught  the 
same  look  in  Jameson's  face  that  had  been  there 
the  other  evening  when  he  had  discussed  truth 
during  his  study  of  her. 

"Julian  is  to  put  Deborah  in,"  she  ended 
gently.  The  gentleness  came  in  just  where  it 
should  have,  where  other  women  might  have 
employed  pretty  glances,  coquettish  words,  or 
any  more  veiled  form  of  the  fine  art  of  flirta- 
tion. Julian  flashed  her  a  grateful  smile  and 
went  to  work  on  the  inspiration.  It  was  a  fine 
way  to  waste  time,  this  putting  Deborah,  with 
her  Celtic  lip  and  her  pedagogic  air,  under  a 
Roman  border,  but  he  did  not  want  the  girl 
to  tell  an  untruth  for  him. 

104 


Sunday 

"  She  is  so  sweet,  so  good,"  he  thought  over 
and  over,  smiling,  and  sketching  into  this  stiff- 
backed  Deborah  a  certain  amount  of  half-Latin 
grace. 

Jameson  went  over  to  the  girl.  "  It  is  Sunday," 
he  said.  "  I  came  up  here  to  ask  you  what  is 
truth  ?  " 

She  raised  her  eyes. 

"  Is  it  the  thing  we  have  done  or  may  do  ? " 
he  continued. 

"  Oh,  it  is  the  thing  we  should  do,"  she  an- 
swered quickly,  and  stood  there  looking  up  at 
him. 

"  If  I  kept  on  looking  into  your  eyes,"  he  said, 
"  I  think  I  should  learn  all  about  truth,  all  about 
right  and  good,  but  nothing  about  sham  and 
convention." 

She  shrank  from  him  delicately. 

Itwas  a  motion  accomplished  before  she  thought, 
and  did  not  mean  anything  offensive  to  either  of 
them. 

"  I  don't  deserve  it  all,"  she  said, "  but  after  the 
other  night  I  think  you  would  not  tell  me  that 
if  you  did  not  mean  it." 

Some  conversations,  apparently  of  slight  im- 
portance, make  the  world  seem  wholly  different 
afterwards. 

Julian  sketched  on  at  his  table.  At  the  window, 
Jameson's  eyes  were  on  a  pair  of  hands.  He 

105 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

had  observed  but  one  other  woman's  during  his 
thirty  odd  years  of  existence,  and  those  were  soft 
hands  which  one  could  crush  like  velvet;  but 
these,  on  which  he  was  now  gazing,  might  be 
easily  put  out  to  "  strong  things." 


106 


XII 

REPARATION 

THE  Irish  school-teacher  and  the  half- 
Italian  young  man  were  just  as  Jameson 
had  left  them. 

"  It  is  Sunday,"  Alfons  said ;  "  I  wish  to  say 
something  pleasant  to  you.  It  is  a  beautiful 
morning." 

She  smiled  after  a  second  and  answered  in  his 
own  vein,  "  Yes,  it  reminds  me  of  the  country." 

" Were  you  ever  in  the  country  much?"  he 
asked.  "  You  look  as  if  you  had  not  lived  very 
much  in  the  country,  not  often  enough." 

She  put  her  hands  unconsciously  to  her  face, 
as  if  wondering  where  this  evidence  appeared. 

"  Only  once,"  she  replied.  "  Once,  when  I  was 
very  ill,  they  packed  me  off  there,  and  I  wanted 
to  drown  myself  in  the  wheat  when  I  grew  better, 
just  as  every  one  else  does,  I  suppose." 

"  Conventional  people  do  not  think  that,"  re- 
marked Alfons,  polishing  his  glasses,  "  only  wharf 
rats,  my  dear  Deborah." 

"  Otherwise,"  she  continued  seriously,  "  I  had 
only  gone  on  occasional  suburban  excursions  and 

107 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

eaten  the  wrong  things  and  suffered  the  inevitable 
headaches,  as  most  people  do." 

"  Do  not  defraud  me  of  my  purpose,  Miss 
Deborah  Murphy,"  he  returned  mockingly. 
"  There  is  a  question  I  have  to  ask  you  —  were 
you  ever  a  wharf  rat  reducing  some  fresh  air 
fund  ?  I  have  just  had  a  vision  of  you  gam- 
bolling over  some  festive  hills,  eating  those  cold 
delicacies  which  never  fail  to  end  in  the  manner 
described  by  you." 

He  ceased  speaking  very  abruptly,  for  Deborah's 
eyes  had  filled  with  tears.  The  next  instant  he 
had  arisen  and  offered  her  his  hand.  He  felt  he 
had  jested  for  many  years  with  her,  but  trespassed 
at  last. 

That  night  Deborah  fell  asleep  over  a  crumpled 
paper  inscribed  with  some  lines  in  verse.  It  had 
been  handed  to  her  that  afternoon  by  the  heir 
presumptive  of  the  O'Byrne  tenements,  and  it  and 
the  writer  were  so  incongruous  to  the  sender  that 
she  would  have  laughed  had  she  been  able. 

"  Then  dost  thou  come  of  noble  blood 
Disgrace  not  thy  good  heritage, 
If  lowly  born,  so  bear  thyself 
That  gentle  blood  may  come  of  thee." 

As  it  was  only  the  second  kind  thing  he  had 
ever  done  for  her,  she  could  not  laugh. 


108 


XIII 
ON   TRUTH 

IT  was  in  the  Spanish  restaurant.  Jameson 
and  Julian  had  gone  there  to  dine.  They 
dropped  in  frequently,  and  on  former  occa- 
sions had  sat  with  two  evening  papers  before 
them,  discussing  some  star  attraction  in  journal- 
ism. Should  this  be  a  suicide  or  a  murder,  they 
were  wont  to  ridicule  the  participants,  who  had 
generally  committed  the  deed  because  of  some 
woman,  and  after  that  they  would  fall  into  a  dis- 
cussion of  the  subject,  viewing  it  from  every  side, 
much  as  they  would  a  prize-fight;  then  Julian 
was  always  apt  to  conclude  on  these  occasions, 
cc  Brown  believes  in  love  !  " 

It  never  failed  to  entertain  these  celibates,  re- 
membering Brown  at  the  office,  for  he  was  one 
of  the  unimportant  persons,  so  unimportant  — 
yet  one  who  had  placed  himself  in  a  remarkable 
position. 

It  was  the  one  remarkable  thing  about  him. 
He  was  only  a  "  fill  in,"  nothing  more,  the  kind 
of  youth  who  would  never  amount  to  anything, 
who  would  never  be  recognized  or  rich,  a  youth 

109 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

who  was  ever  cheerful  and  not  ashamed  of  a 
ragged  coat,  —  it  only  seemed  to  give  him  more 
food  for  his  spirits.  The  remarkable  position  in 
which  Brown  had  placed  himself  was  through  his 
marriage.  He  believed  that  the  reason  of  his 
own  personal  cheerfulness  and  his  being  able  to 
lunch  smilingly  on  one  sandwich  was  due  to  his 
wife.  And  it  was  a  tradition  in  the  office  that 
Brown's  not  caring  about  the  great  "why"  of 
existence  could  be  traced  directly  to  his  baby,  a 
fat  foolish  baby  which  slept  when  it  should  have 
said  "  How  do  you  do." 

"  So  long  as  we  live,  and  cannot  help  it,  let  us 
marry  and  smile,  and  eat  and  sleep  and  have  a 
baby."  They  had  called  that  Brown's  creed.  All 
was  quite  a  joke,  no  doubt,  but  both  his  optimism 
and  his  ragged  coat  had  elements  of  dignity  in 
them  that  no  man  could  deny. 

In  the  old  days,  they  had  probably  combated 
Brown's  faith  by  the  Articles  of  Misogamy  !  The 
restaurant  was  the  same  as  usual.  It  was  not 
changed  in  the  least.  It  was  a  bare,  unconven- 
tional place,  famed  as  to  cooking,  yet  neither  ate 
as  much  as  usual. 

"  Don't  you  care  for  the  spaghetti  any  more  ?  " 

"  No,  I  do  not  care  for  it,"  Jameson  answered. 

"  That  is  the  way  with  my  pipe,"  Julian  said. 
c<  I  do  not  seem  to  need  it  as  much  as  I  did." 

Each  homely  phrase  was  full  of  pathos,  had 
no 


On  Truth 

they  but  known.  They  sat  staring  around  on  a 
scene  that  was  bright  and  cheery.  The  floor  had 
a  small  coating  of  glistening  sand,  and  the  long 
line  of  tables  was  of  whitewood,  on  which  well- 
filled  cruets  and  jolly  bottles  of  bright  Chianti 
sparkled  in  a  friendly  way.  A  few  hungry  diners 
were  preparing  tempting-looking  salads  in  bright 
blue  bowls.  Gay  radishes  peeped  from  the  folds 
of  the  crisp  lettuce,  and  here  and  there  long,  white 
strips  of  onion  were  visible. 

A  few  negro  musicians  had  started  to  play 
tinkling  music,  while  some  college  boys,  at  an 
adjacent  table,  were  throwing  noisy  jokes  at  them, 
which  the  darkies  seemed  to  receive  entirely 
through  their  shining  teeth. 

No  —  the  restaurant  was  in  no  way  different 
from  what  it  had  been  other  evenings. 

"  Jame,"  Julian  suddenly  exclaimed,  "  do  you 
see  that  couple  at  the  little  table  to  the  left,  near 
the  door  P  I  think  it  began  with  a  { date,1  but 
now  I  am  sure  he  is  in  love  with  her ;  for  every 
time  she  turns  her  head,  profile,  he  looks  as  if 
he  would  like  to  kiss  her  Louise  of  Austria 
cheek.  Do  you  notice  how  I  have  apotheo- 
sized the  curve  ?  I  used  to  call  it  the  dairy 
maid,  but  since  I  found  out  about  the  love,  I 
call  it  the  Empress  Louise.  It  is  a  consequent 
exaltation." 

"  I  had  been  watching  them,"  the  man  replied. 
in 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

He  had  never  noticed  such  things  before,  so 
on  second  thoughts  he  added,  "  They  are  making 
fools  of  themselves  before  the  whole  restaurant." 

"  I  cannot  see  it  in  that  way,"  the  younger 
man  replied.  "  They  are  happy  and  they  show 
it  —  that  is  all." 

cc  The  world  is  not  asking  them  to  display  their 
feelings,"  Jameson  returned. 

Julian  sat  staring  before  him.  His  face  had 
the  customary  pallor,  and  just  now  had  one  of  its 
intense,  rapt  expressions ;  the  train  of  thought 
must  have  changed  lately,  as  up  to  this  time  he 
had  been  merely  a  boy,  with  a  good  appetite, 
healthy  enjoyments,  and  ordinary  opinions,  from 
which  source  he  had  produced  artistic  fancies 
which  sold  well.  There  was  now  a  difference  so 
general  that  it  was  past  mistaking.  Julian  was  on 
the  verge  of  his  manhood ;  although  he  was  not 
secure,  yet  soon  he  would  be  a  man,  with  a  firm 
footing  and  established  opinions. 

"  They  are  not  thinking  of  the  world,"  he 
continued.  There  was  a  doggedness  in  his  very 
persistence  of  the  subject,  but  the  voice  was  not 
aggressive.  "  They  are  only  being  true  to  their 
own  instincts,  true  to  truth,  as  it  were ;  so,  what 
is  there  to  censure  in  that  ?  For  the  matter  of 
that,  what  is  truth,  then,  Jameson?  The  element 
to  be  omitted,  yet  the  one  eternal  chord  we  have. 
You  yourself  have  told  me  that  truth  is  the 

112 


On  Truth 

most  real  element  of  success  amongst  us,  the  one 
note  capable  of  drowning  a  thousand  discords." 

He  stared  at  the  man  as  if  seeking  spiritual 
assistance. 

It  was  sad  that  Jameson  should  fail  him  at  this 
moment,  when  all  the  fair  illusions  of  life  were 
needed  for  the  aggrandizement  of  love. 

The  older  man  pushed  his  plate  away,  and  was 
listening.  Julian  went  on  :  "  If  all  were  true  !  — 
the  murderers,  the  saints,  the  jesters  !  If  we  did 
not  hide  crime,  if  we  only  were  not  ashamed  of 
good,  if  we  rid  mirth  of  all  but  enjoyment !  If 
even  sin  were  true !  Murder  stalks  through  the 
street  steel-armored ;  virtue  shrinks  from  her 
public  throne  ;  while  our  sense  of  humor  is  so 
perverted,  so  diseased  with  the  ills  we  have  suf- 
fered, that  we  find  matter  for  the  funny  columns, 
in  even  the  grand  old  paradoxes  of  Christianity  ; 
Voltairians  at  heart  —  all  of  us.  The  world  is 
running  that  way,  carrying  us  with  it  —  cjest 
with  life,  for  that  only  is  it  good/  ' 

He  tried  to  stop  at  that,  but  this  was  wrung 
from  him :  — 

"  If  all  were  true  !  But  wrong  hides  its  face  in 
masks  and  dons  fancy  dress,  and  "  (he  broke  out 
passionately)  "  it  is  the  lies  that  we  cannot  forgive 
in  sin  — " 

The  restaurant  represented  nothing.  They 
two  seemed  to  sit  alone  in  the  midst  of  pale  gray 
8  113 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

aesthetic  thoughts,  surrounding  both  like  shadows. 

Julian  laid  his  napkin  across  the  table  mechani- 
cally. He  was  pale,  and  his  eyes,  removed  from 
the  affectionate  couple  who  were  looking  love  at 
each  other,  were  regarding  Jameson.  The  lone- 
liness in  them  was  tender  beyond  description,  yet 
down  in  their  very  depths  was  a  certain  gleam  of 
self-reliance  that  might  struggle  toward  greater 
strength  some  day.  It  was  as  if  Julian  had  come 
unexpectedly  face  to  face  with  a  crisis.  He  had 
been  nourished  for  eight  years  on  one  food  —  was 
there  to  be  no  strength  in  it  ?  With  a  sudden- 
ness he  put  this  to  a  test. 

"  Those  are  your  own  thoughts,  Jame  ;  the 
most  of  the  man-thoughts  in  my  life  I  have  taken 
from  you,  old  fellow  !  " 

Jameson  was  leaning  back. 

"  I  do  not  recognize  them  then,"  he  replied. 
"  I  think  I  must  have  outgrown  them  ;  intensity 
is  immaturity  in  a  measure,  and  exaggeration  is 
a  form  of  youth.  Perhaps  once  I  did  say  all 
you  ascribe  to  me,  but  experience,  Julian,  life 
itself,  is  the  greatest  exponent  of  views  that  are 
less  —  sincere."  Julian  did  not  yield.  He  was 
leaning  forward,  his  face  as  beautiful  as  a  woman's 
when  lit  with  love.  Jameson  had  been  a  hero 
to  him,  and  he  was  fighting  now  for  his  own 
ideals. 

"  But  they  are  worthy  thoughts,  Jame  ;  they  are 
114 


On  Truth 

better  then  we  may  ever  think  again  !  Should  we 
not  keep  them  all  our  lives  ?  " 

"  The  point  of  view  has  changed,"  Jameson 
answered  ;  it  was  the  only  answer  he  could  make. 
Guided  by  some  intuition,  it  was  as  if  the  youth 
had  revealed  his  old  self  to  him,  the  self  he  had 
once  been,  and  had  once  imagined  he  would  be 
forever. 

"  The  point  of  view  has  changed ;  we  may  all 
hug  sexless  theories,  and  make  much  of  them 
before  men,  and  so  exalt  them;  but  there  will 
come  a  day  when  we  shall  stand  revealed  as  souls 
gone  naked  of  flimsy  trappings  and  artifices.  In 
that  day  we  shall  know  life,  and  our  eternal  accu- 
mulations for  what  they  are.  It  will  be  our  real 
life,  not  our  words,  then,  Julian." 

The  boy  got  to  his  feet.  "  I  don't  want  to  hear 
any  more,"  he  cried,  with  passion  in  his  voice, 
as  of  protest.  "It  is  as  if  they  were  real  treas- 
ures, and  I  have  been  like  a  woman  over  dia- 
monds. I  suppose  everything  is  paste—  His 
eyes  said  the  rest,  they  and  a  sneer  on  his  shaven 
lips  —  "  Oh,  my  God,  what  a  fraud  life  is  !  " 

"  You  sha'n't  go  like  that,"  said  Jameson  ;  his 
voice  had  the  old  quality  of  control  in  it,  the 
more  powerful  when  it  was  low-pitched. 

They  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  merry  diners, 
having  risen,  though  they  had  not  yet  moved 
away.  They  were  perfect  foils  to  each  other ; 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

both  young,  but  with  a  difference  in  years  that 
gave  Jameson  the  advantage  of  physical  and 
mental  virility;  moreover,  he  had  lost  his  im- 
personal appearance  of  a  week  ago,  and  carried 
himself  with  a  new  and  becoming  alertness. 

Under  its  influence  women  cast  swift  glances  at 
him,  instead  of  at  Julian,  as  they  had  formerly 
done.  It  was  as  if  he  had  awakened  at  a  word, 
and  had  entered  some  vast  arena. 

"  Julian,  don't  end  like  that,"  he  said,  "  there 
was  a  time  in  our  lives  when  we  imagined  that  we 
knew  what  truth  was,  but  it  was  the  word  alone 
that  we  were  defining;  we  had  not  been  called 
upon  to  practise  the  Spartan  quality  itself.  For 
years  and  years  duty  has  been  the  only  truth  to 
me,  the  only  reality  of  truth  I  have  known,  and 
without  seeking  a  change  in  standards,  what  if  the 
aspect  should  become  different  of  its  own  accord 
—  what  if  a  new  influence  should  arrive,  what  if 
duty  should  seem  secondary  after  all  these  years?" 

Julian  stood  reaching  towards  his  hat ;  he  was 
watching  Jameson's  face  with  an  absorbed  but  not 
analytic  gaze.  The  man  was  saying  these  soul- 
ful things  in  the  hubbub  of  the  lighted  restaurant 
in  the  same  manner  as  if  he  were  discussing  the 
menu.  As  Julian  realized  the  effect,  he  let  his 
lips  part  in  a  boyish  smile,  and  then  the  smile 
became  a  deep,  silent,  wholly  enjoyable  laugh. 
"  You  old  temple  of  a  fellow,"  he  cried,  "  you 

116 


On  Truth 

old  temple  of  a  fellow."  He  did  not  try  to  say 
any  more,  but  strode  down  the  room  toward  the 
entrance  of  the  restaurant.  The  smile  was  still 
lingering  on  his  face,  and  his  fine  eyes  were  glow- 
ing. Jameson  was  a  great  old  temple,  dear  old 
chap,  he  thought,  lying  under  the  winters  and 
summers  of  present  life  as  if  the  goodly  seasons 
were  influences  only,  helping  him  to  grow  old  ! 

Jameson  strode  down  the  aisle  behind  him, 
looking  neither  to  right  nor  left.  He  was  think- 
ing also.  It  was  not  a  very  relevant  thought 
to  their  conversation,  nor  was  it  consistent  with 
Julian's  metaphor  concerning  his  friend. 

"After  knocking  around  year  after  year  at 
parties,  at  restaurants,  at  public  places,  it  was 
good  to  look  into  the  eyes  of  one  woman  and 
find  rest  —  after  one's  folly  and  unfaith  and 
doubt  —  " 

Half-way  out  the  younger  man  stopped  to  ex- 
change greetings  with  their  three  young  friends 
from  the  Terrace.  Deborah,  Ludwiga,  and 
Alfons  were  seating  themselves  at  a  table,  when 
Julian  caught  sight  of  them  and  stepped  over, 
his  fine  eyes  still  glowing ;  but  Jameson  re- 
mained motionless  until  the  boy  returned. 

Julian  bent  over  them  all.  "  I  do  not  see  why 
you  are  here,"  he  said  to  the  young  ladies.  "  You 
do  not  look  as  though  you  needed  to  eat  as  the 
rest  of  us  do." 

117 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"Oh,"  answered  Deborah,  "if  I  were  to 'die 
from  lack  of  nourishment,  Alfons  would  have  to 
go  oftener  to  vaudeville  shows  for  his  entertain- 
ment, so  it  would  be  expensive  and  very  cruel  of 
me,  don't  you  see  ?  " 

The  young  half-Florentine  girl  sat  smiling  up 
at  Julian  also.  There  was  no  one  in  all  the 
world  quite  so  near  and  dear  as  Julian  to  her  in  a 
friendly  way.  Once,  when  they  were  first  ac- 
quainted, he  had  made  her  laugh  aloud  at  some- 
thing, and  life  was  never  the  same  after ;  never  so 
stiff. 

Julian  said  that  living  amongst  old  people  and 
putting  so  much  red  flannel  on  their  joints  had 
made  her  ideas  rheumatic  also,  and  it  would  not 
do! 

He  said  sunny  things  to  dispel  the  disease,  and 
she  used  to  smile  back  at  him,  just  as  she  did  this 
evening,  with  brown,  grateful  eyes,  while  Julian 
enjoyed  his  brief  knowledge  of  the  medical  pro- 
fession, and  practised  it  conscientiously. 

She  smiled  now,  the  ready  smile  that  she  gave 
her  brother.  It  was  sunshine  that  Julian  had 
contributed  to  her  life,  and  this  sunshine  had 
warmed  the  earth  in  whose  bosom  lay  the  seed  of 
self. 

Was  it  to  be  quickened  ? 


118 


XIV 

ON    THE    APOTHEOSIS    OF 
EXISTENCE 

THE  "white  fleecy  fog"  seemed  to  swal- 
low  Jameson    and   Julian    as    they    as- 
cended  the  steep  hill   to  their   rooms. 
One  can  learn  to  love  the  fog  very  much.     There 
are  evenings  when  it  sweeps  across  the  land,  — 
calming,  cooling,  welcome ;    the    same  solace  to 
our  jaded,  distorted  senses  as  is  sleep.     The  day 
may  have  been  hard  in  its  lessons  or  over-warm 
in  temperature,  but  this  fog,  when  we  have  learned 
to  love  it,  has  the  quiet  touch  of  a  friend. 

"  I  wish  we  could  go  back,"  Julian  said,  when 
they  got  to  their  little  landing.  "  I  should  like 
to  hear  Deborah  and  Alfons  argue  about  the 
onion  in  their  salad.  It  is  the  rock  upon  which 
they  never  fail  to  split  when  they  find  themselves 
in  anything  like  calm  water." 

He  was  quite  right.  Deborah  and  Alfons 
seemed  to  develop  through  excitement.  If  every 
other  means  had  failed,  I  think  they  would  have 
had  to  overturn  the  boat  themselves  rather  than 
face  each  other  fairly  and  squarely  as  ordinary 

119 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

people  are  wont  to  do.  Thus  they  had  one  time 
seized  on  the  onion  in  their  salad  as  a  genteel 
rock  to  use  for  their  humors,  and  had  quarrelled 
carefully  for  ten  years  over  an  eighth  of  an  inch 
of  the  seasoning.  With  judgment,  an  eighth  of 
an  inch  may  remain  an  eighth  of  an  inch  during 
the  average  lifetime. 

Jameson  went  up  the  stairs  as  usual,  into  his 
own  room.  He  was  a  man,  he  was  not  a  temple, 
as  Julian  had  exclaimed. 

He  thought  of  all  Julian  had  repeated  to  him 
of  his  own  former  opinions  on  truth  and  life. 
He  was  interested  in  them,  but  not  greatly  so. 
They  had  been  high  ideals  to  him,  but  now  they 
were  merely  words,  words,  words. 

He  had  never  been  much  of  a  man  to  waste 
even  platitudes  on  a  woman,  but  that  night,  when 
he  left  the  restaurant,  it  was  with  a  desire  which 
changed  into  a  dull,  inconceivable  regret.  It 
would  not  have  been  inconceivable  to  everybody, 
but  it  was  inconceivable  to  his  ignorance. 

He  had  watched  the  girl's  face  as  Julian  had 
bent  above  her,  saying  his  sunshiny  thoughts, 
and  Jameson  had  experienced  a  desire  to  be 
standing  above  her  also,  and  saying  into  her 
eyes,  "It  has  seemed  a  long  time  since  Sunday 
morning." 

He  recalled  Julian's  passionate  words  :  "  It  is 
the  lies  that  we  can't  forgive  in  sin." 

120 


On  the  Apotheosis  of  Existence 

Jameson  sought  to  be  honorable  in  this  mat- 
ter. She  was  Julian's  girl,  he  thought,  merely  an 
influence  in  his  own  life.  He  would  not  harm 
Julian  by  word  or  deed,  although,  if  there  were 
some  interference,  Julian  might  yet  be  saved  to 
art.  If  some  one  won  the  girl  from  Julian, 
Julian  might  yet  justify  their  old  ambitions. 

He  stopped  at  this  ;  then  went  on  in  the  former 
perfunctory  strain  again.  He  did  not  care  to 
interfere  with  any  of  Julian's  possessions;  he  did 
not  even  care  to  weaken  Julian's  influence  by  a 
platitude.  He  knew  that  Julian  would  laugh  that 
same  laugh  which  he  had  enjoyed  in  the  restaurant 
if  he  could  hear  him. 

"  You  old  temple  of  a  fellow,"  he  would  say, 
"  can't  you  even  be  civil  to  the  girl  just  because 
she  is  mine,  you  old  ascetic  ?  " 

Platitudes  are  idle  arrows  to  be  shot  into  the 
air.  They  harm  no  one,  unless  some  player  for- 
gets the  rules  of  the  game  and  takes  aim. 

Jameson  felt  that  his  remark  that  night  would 
be  more  significant  than  a  mere  convention,  after 
his  and  the  young  girl's  two  conversations  on 
truth.  He  went  to  bed,  and  in  his  slumber 
there  came  a  triumphant  solution  of  his  problem. 
"  Read  deep  in  the  woman's  eyes  and  read  love," 
said  the  message.  It  was  very  convincing,  and 
influenced  his  waking  hours  vaguely ;  for  after 
that  there  seemed  no  truth  greater  than  love  ; 

121 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

no  wrong  save  that  of  ignoring;  no  life  save  life 
so  revealed. 

Often  thoughts  are  tentative  and  disturbing. 
We  fret  and  fume  mentally,  and  yet  do  not  under- 
stand. It  is  only  when  Time  has  finished  some 
unseen  moulding  that  the  full  forces  of  life  are 
given  back  to  our  service  and  we  are  rendered 
capable  of  knowing  why  and  wherefore  and  when. 
We  have  not  a  large  stock  of  understanding  and 
wisdom,  so  it  is  well  to  know  that  in  the  weakest 
moments  of  our  life  Time  may  have  care  of  our 
missing  qualities,  shaping  the  ego  for  us. 


122 


XV 
DEBORAH'S    LIFE 

DEBORAH  was  the  most  important  per- 
son of  all  in  the  Terrace,  all  things  con- 
sidered. Her  name  was  Miss  Deborah 
Murphy,  as  I  have  told  you,  and  she  taught,  and 
saved  her  money,  as  people  should.  She  must 
have  been  very  poor  once,  for  she  saved  with  a 
certain  desperateness  as  to  cause,  as  if  the  wolf 
were  always  near.  There  was  the  same  quality 
also  in  all  her  attributes.  All  bore  the  stamp  of 
a  want  which  was  so  deep  it  could  never  be  filled. 
It  is  not  that  I  mean  to  detract  from  her  gener- 
osity;  rather  I  would  add  to  it.  It  is  the  hail- 
fellows-well-met  in  life  who  can  lay  money  in 
needy  hands  and  think  no  more  about  the  mat- 
ter. It  is  merely  taking  a  half-dollar  or  twenty 
dollars  from  their  comfortable  pockets,  leaving  a 
barely  perceptible  difference  afterward.  It  is  a 
charity,  t?ut  one  that  man  cannot  judge  of. 
Again,  there  are  many  amongst  us  who  would 
give  the  more  quickly  for  having  felt  the  bottom 
of  our  own  pockets  from  time  to  time;  but,  if  we 
have  looked  very  want  in  the  face,  as  Deborah 

123 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

may  have  done,  we  sympathize  in  a  way  which  is 
like  to  pinch  our  hearts  before  we  are  done  with 
it.  We  want  to  give,  and  in  spite  of  misgivings 
often  do ;  but  at  first  we  are  afraid  —  afraid  — 
then  we  go  to  some  quiet  spot  and  think  the 
matter  out,  and  at  last,  thinking  of  the  time  when 
need  was  so  desperate  and  help  did  not  come,  say, 
"  Every  man  for  himself,"  and  so  close  our  fin- 
gers over  our  small  portion,  trying  to  think  this 
course  will  insure  us  against  the  future.  But,  at 
night —  at  night  —  it  is  very  different.  We  think 
then,  in  the  silent  watches,  that  it  is  better  to  give 
even  if  we  are  deceived,  than  perhaps  have  refused 
some  one  whose  need  might  be  greater  than  was 
apparent.  We  cannot  say  words  about  "  daily 
bread "  when  we  have  felt  the  cruel,  cruel  need 
of  it ;  when  we  are  fearing  that  now  a  friend  or 
some  friendless  creature  is  battling  in  the  same 
desperate  way.  So  we  go  quickly,  while  this  mood 
is  on  us,  and  lay  our  portion  in  the  hand  of  the 
needy  one  —  without  looking,  lest  we  repent. 
And  God,  who  loves  a  cheerful  giver,  knows 
and  seems  to  exalt  our  poor  human  reason,  for 
the  fear  grows  less. 

Deborah  had  moved  to  the  Terrace  long  after 
the  Strongs  had  made  it  their  abiding-place.  She 
was  younger  then,  but  had  experiences  which  made 
her  seem  middle-aged  even  as  now.  She  spoke 
to  no  one,  looked  at  no  one,  kept  very  much  to 

124 


Deborah's  Life 

her  own  modest  room,  in  the  lodging-house  kept 
by  the  blue-veined  landlady,  who  was  a  gentle- 
woman, much  reduced  as  to  both  purse  and 
person. 

But  this  seclusion  of  Deborah's  was  not  to 
endure.  She  was  young,  although  she  did  not 
look  so,  and  if  she  had  made  up  her  mind  not  to 
mingle  with  her  neighbors,  and  was  even  ready 
to  stand  against  her  door  with  arms  outstretched, 
if  need  be,  to  bar  their  entrance,  she  did  not  do 
it  when  put  to  the  test. 

She  was  a  woman,  as  well  as  a  victim  of  circum- 
stances, and  her  curiosity  was  not  impaired  by 
her  financial  vicissitudes,  as  she  was  soon  to  learn. 
More  than  this,  as  the  romantic  would  say,  she 
was  in  the  hands  of  a  fate,  which  is  painstaking  in 
its  conquests  of  our  inclinations.  We  may  stand 
in  the  very  stream  of  life,  facing  where  we  please, 
believing  we  will  go  our  own  way,  shaking  what 
we  think  are  potent  hands  in  the  face  of  the  great 
achiever ;  but  even  as  we  dream  and  vow,  are  we 
turned  slowly,  surely,  relentlessly,  by  all-powerful 
undercurrents. 

Thus,  against  her  will  was  Deborah  forced  into 
the  life  of  the  Terrace  people.  She  heard  things 
she  did  not  care  to  hear,  she  made  discov- 
eries she  did  not  care  to  make,  —  discoveries  not 
intelligent  just  at  first.  She  discovered  that  it 
was  a  little  place,  and,  compared  with  the  large- 

125 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

ness  of  life  in  these  days,  it  seemed  even  smaller 
than  it  was.  She  sat  in  her  own  room  in  those 
early  days,  and  revelled  in  the  bitterness  of  her 
contempt  for  a  world  in  which  she  had  gained 
a  footing,  but  a  world  which  had  grudged  it 
to  hen  For  her  history  was  a  varied  one.  In 
neglecting  to  tell  it  she  made  it  greater,  far  more 
tragic  than  it  really  was,  because  kind  people  filled 
in  the  omissions  with  surmises,  as  they  are  prone 
to  do,  with  stories  at  which  she  would  have  laughed 
in  her  dry  way  that  had  no  girlhood  in  it. 
The  simple  truth  of  her  history  was  this  : 
She  had  been  poor,  born  of  such  parents  as 
might  have  gone  through  long  famines  in  Ireland. 
These  had  thought,  when  they  came  to  our 
prosperous  land,  "  Everything  will  be  different, 
—  this  is  a  golden  country."  But  these  golden 
dreams  were  not  to  be  realized  ;  they  were  poor 
still,  and  they  and  their  kind  huddled  together 
in  tenements  where  they  were  too  tired  to  culti- 
vate the  soil  of  their  minds  or  their  morals. 
They  worked  one  day  perhaps,  drank  and  slept, 
and  on  the  day  following  perhaps  there  was  no 
work,  so  they  drank  and  slept,  and  continued 
this  course  ad  infinitum,  ad  libitum,  ad  nauseam, 
and  all  the  other  ads. 

And  one  day,  out  of  the  sloth  and  the  horror 
of  such  a  life  God  sent  a  child  for  the  honor  of 
their  blood.  She  was  much  like  the  other  chil- 

126 


Deborah's  Life 

dren  of  their  family,  save  that  she  lay  still  more 
often,  perhaps  because  she  bore  in  her  tiny  frame 
that  upward  power  which  is  so  strong,  so  vital, 
so  eternal  that  we  must  call  it  the  seed  of 
resurrection. 

She  played  on  their  doorstep  just  as  other 
tenement  progeny  did  ;  but  instead  of  wrangling, 
she  would  sit  still,  fondling  the  dirty  leaves  torn 
out  of  some  old  book,  even  when  she  was  too 
little  to  read  or  understand  the  contents  read  to 
her. 

Later  she  went  to  school,  and  imbibed  more  or 
less  of  the  knowledge  deemed  fit  for  infantile 
minds ;  but  the  home  atmosphere  choked  her, 
and  she  nearly  died.  In  books,  this  would  have 
made  her  conquest  more  glorious,  but  she  was 
only  a  weak,  suffering  Irish  child.  There  were 
times  when  a  kind  lady  from  a  mission  would 
give  her  a  bunch  of  flowers,  and  these  assisted 
her  development;  or  the  kind  lady  would  give 
her  a  pat  on  the  head,  which  threw  her  back 
on  the  primal  instincts,  —  half-savage,  resentful, 
unbeautiful. 

But  her  evolution  proceeded.  She  went  to 
work  in  a  cannery,  then  in  families,  and  one 
glorious  day  God  smiled  on  His  own,  and 
she  knew  that  she  wanted  to  go  to  night  school, 
so  as  to  be  different  from  her  own  people.  It 
was  a  long,  toilsome  task,  but  she  came  up  at 

127 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

last,  as  it  was  intended.  She  came  up  as  a 
drowning  person  out  of  the  waters,  but  with  no 
great  faith  in  their  mercy,  or  in  the  reason  of 
anything.  Her  people  died  off  by  degrees,  and 
when  she  was  still  a  young  girl,  as  the  world 
might  judge,  say  nineteen  or  twenty,  she  was 
respectable  enough  to  go  to  live  in  the  Terrace. 
She  might  have  gone  still  higher,  but  she  was 
too  tired,  for  a  while  at  least. 

You  can  understand  how  Deborah  carried  to 
the  blue-veined  landlady's  table  many  storms  and 
burdens  behind  her  modest  shirt-front.  She  did 
not  eat  much  at  times,  as  the  mere  food  seemed 
to  choke  her.  She  did  not  know  why  then,  but 
it  was  because  she  was  still  very  young  and  bitter, 
and  the  remembrance  of  past  suffering  was  still 
keen.  One  day,  when  this  feeling  had  seemed 
even  harder  than  usual,  Deborah  rose  hurriedly 
from  the  table  and  went  over  and  stood  by  an 
open  window.  She  wanted  to  breathe  more 
freely,  and  in  this  sad  state  of  her  spirit  the  poor 
child  also  wanted  to  pray. 

Her  people  had  been  Romanists  also,  but 
not  like  the  mother  of  Alfons.  The  latter  had 
been  born  in  the  atmosphere  of  Catholicism 
and  had  absorbed  the  religion  naturally ;  but  it 
was  not  the  Bread  of  Life  to  her.  It  was  merely 
an  incense,  and  after  a  while  marriage  supplied 
incenses  also, —  those  of  love  and  home  and 

128 


Deb  or  alts  Life 

children ;  so  she  was  well  surrounded  and 
content. 

But  Deborah's  faith  was  of  that  seed  which  the 
old  Church  often  scatters,  and  which  grows  even 
in  barren  places.  In  Deborah's  heart  lay  religion 
of  this  nature,  —  dormant,  but  deep.  She  felt 
that  God  or  the  Blessed  Virgin  would  come  to 
her  aid  if  she  could  reach  them ;  but  no  suppli- 
cating words  would  come.  She  feared  that  all 
the  natural  springs  of  the  spirit  had  run  dry ; 
but  it  was  not  so. 

While  she  was  at  the  window  that  afternoon, 
another  boarder  approached  and  stood  beside  her. 
He  said,  "  You  are  unhappy,  little  lady  ? "  and 
Deborah  scowled  at  him,  but  could  not  speak. 
He  continued  talking.  "  I  am  only  an  old 
fellow,  wandering  through  the  evening  of  life, 
so  you  must  not  mind  me ;  I  was  young  once, 
as  you  are  now ;  one  day  you  will  be  old  too, 
and  will  perhaps  feel  as  I  do  to-night.  So  we 
may  meet  on  common  ground.  You  must  not 
be  lonely  amongst  us." 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  be  lonely,"  exclaimed  the  girl. 

He  was  not  shocked.  He  felt  glad  to  have 
drawn  that  much  from  her,  so  he  went  on,  not- 
withstanding the  rebuff. 

"  If  you  ask  Mrs.  O'Byrne  whether  there  are 
any  ladies  or  gentlemen  in  the  Terrace,  she  is  apt 
to  reply  there  are  none  rich  enough  for  the  title, 
9  129 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

except  old  Casey,  who  lives  at  the  corner ;  but  he 
is  a  silk-purse  and  sow's-ear  sort  of  chap,  I  fear, 
for  great  is  our  joy  on  Sunday  mornings,  when 
he  comes  back  from  Mass  carrying  the  collar  he 
should  wear ;  but  even  in  that  rough  old  body  is 
a  rare  old  heart.  I  want  you  to  know  the  hearts 
of  these  people,  and  grow  to  like  them,  my 
maid." 

"  I  do  not  care  to  know  people,"  the  girl  re- 
plied, "  I  have  no  faith  in  them." 

He  knew  still  better  what  next  to  say.  "  There 
is  much  in  getting  the  key  to  the  hearts  of  those 
about  us,"  he  said,  "and  then,  after  sufficient 
time,  there  is  no  sceptic  who  will  not  pity  or 
admire.  After  we  learn  to  pity  or  admire,  we 
expand,  although  unconsciously.  We  cannot 
help  it." 

Deborah  thought  of  her  own  heart,  and  was 
silent. 

"Take,  for  instance,  old  Casey,"  her  fellow- 
boarder  said.  "  You  call  all  these  small,  plain- 
fronted  houses  c  similar/  He  knows  his  home  as 
c  the  wan  with  the  winder  where  the  old  woman 
used  to  look  out  of  before  she  wint.' ' 

"  I  have  no  faith  in  people,"  the  girl  cried. 
It  was  almost  an  outcry. 

He  stood  before  her,  an  incongruously  gentle 
figure,  with  long  gray  military  moustaches,  and 
faded  black  garments  with  shiny  seams.  After- 

130 


Deborah's  Life 

wards  she  heard  that  he  was  one  of  that  nu- 
merous class  "who  never  harm  any  one  but 
themselves."  It  is  such  a  sad,  sad  sin,  so  often 
gentle,  —  that  of  drunkenness. 

"  I  once  said  that,"  he  replied.  "It  was  sev- 
eral years  ago,  —  perhaps  three  or  four.  I  should 
like  to  tell  you  about  it." 

He  had  taken  out  his  pipe,  and  tried  to  smoke 
it,  but  he  was  somewhat  nervous,  and  it  refused 
to  light,  thus  affording  him  neither  support  nor 
solace. 

"  I  was  very  ill,  alone,  and  friendless.  It  would 
have  been  a  pleasure  to  die,  I  thought,  yet  I 
hated  to  pass  out  disillusioned.  It  is  not  satisfy- 
ing ;  for  one  likes  the  little  deceptions  of  love  and 
friendship,  after  all.  So  I  longed  for  a  hand  to 
hold,  or  some  kind  face  to  look  into,  that  did  not 
belong  to  a  paid  nurse.  One  night  they  told  me 
I  was  dying."  His  pipe  had  gone  out  again,  but 
he  sucked  it  in  a  dry,  noisy  little  way.  "  I  was 
very  lonely,  I  can  remember  that,  —  not  afraid, 
mind  you,  only  sorry  for  the  loneliness.  It  must 
be  the  same  way  with  a  fellow  when  he  leaves  for 
a  long  voyage,  with  no  one  even  to  say  c  good- 
bye/ I  remember  I  closed  my  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  when  I  opened  them,  as  if  in  answer  to 
that  unuttered  prayer,  I  saw  a  girl  in  the  room 
by  my  bedside."  (Then  he  took  out  his  pipe.) 
"  To  this  day  I  can  remember  just  what  she  wore 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

and  how  she  looked,  —  a  half-grown  slip  of  a  girl 
in  braided  hair,  and  a  dress  that  seemed  to  be 
going  down  by  tucks.  At  least  she  had  that  ap- 
pearance, but  it  might  have  been  intensified  by 
similar  discoveries  I  made  afterwards.  Suddenly 
I  recognized  her.  A  new  family  had  moved  into 
the  Terrace,  —  a  father,  son,  and  two  daughters. 
The  father  was  the  old  doctor  who  had  called  on 
me  that  day  in  consultation,  and  she  was  one  of 
his  daughters. 

" c  Father  says  you  are  very  sick,'  she  began, 
c  and  I  came  in  to  see  what  I  can  do  for  you. 
I  am  very  used  to  sick  people.  My  little  sister 
is  sick  all  the  time.' 

" c  I  should  like  to  have  you  sit  with  me 
a  while,'  I  answered,  c  if  your  father  can  spare 
you.' 

"  I  can  see  her  again  this  moment,  sitting  down 
like  a  child  well  used  to  obey  ;  and,  just  in  that 
manner  she  took  my  hand  in  her  own  little  warm 
one,  and  time  began  to  pass. 

"  There  were  many  thoughts  for  those  moments, 
—  waiting,  increasing  weakness,  wonderment,  and 
above  all,  peace.  I  began  to  die  deliciously,  it 
seemed  to  me.  She  was  such  a  quiet  child,  the 
full  cowardice  of  dying  before  her  did  not  strike 
me  till  long  afterward.  We  just  held  on  to  each 
other,  and  I  was  keeping  my  eyes  on  her  face, 
waiting  for  the  end,  when  (this  is  the  funny  part 

132 


Deborah's  Life 

of  it)  she  leaned  over  and  whispered  something, 
looking  at  the  clock  as  she  did  so  : 

" c  Guess  where  I  am  going  at  eight.  To  a 
party  ! ' 

"  She  wanted  me  to  let  her  go,  but  I  could  not. 
I  must  have  been  very  weak,  with  the  cowardice 
needing  human  touch  overpowering  me,  for  I 
held  on,  and  she  stayed.  We  often  laugh  about 
it  now,  and  to  this  day  I  can  hear  the  little  voice 
losing  note  after  note  of  hope. 

"  '  The  only  party  since  I  was  a  little  girl !  It 
won't  take  me  long  to  dress,  of  course,  not  like  it 
was  a  new  dress.  Brother  must  be  tying  his  own 
cravat  about  now.  It  is  half-past  seven.  People 
go  in  late  sometimes  —  ' 

"  Just  in  the  same  voice  in  which  she  said, 
hours  after,  when  I  still  lay,  now  waking,  now 
sleeping,  but  coming  back  from  the  Valley,  *  My 
hand  is  very  tired,  but  do  not  disturb  him,  father 
dear/  " 

When  her  new  friend  gave  a  side  glance  at 
Deborah,  he  saw  that  she  had  turned  away,  and 
was  resting  her  head  on  her  arms,  and  was  not 
looking  at  him,  so  he  said,  "  You  are  not  going 
to  tell  me  you  have  no  faith  now,  little  lady,  be- 
cause I  have  lent  you  some  of  mine." 

The  smile  they  exchanged  was  radiant  as  a 
rainbow,  such  wonders  had  his  kind  words  and 
opportune  story  worked  in  her. 

133 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  Does  the  girl  still  live  here  ? "  she  asked. 
"Is  she  as  good  now  —  as  human?" 

"  I  think  she  is  the  most  human  girl  I  know, 
and  she  lives  here  still,"  he  returned.  With  tact 
and  gentleness  her  fellow-boarder  told  of  the 
Strongs,  of  their  having  come  of  wealthy  people, 
a  family  which  weakness  and  indecision  had 
robbed  of  its  powers.  Thus  he  enlisted  her  pity 
instead  of  her  cruelty  for  them,  and  silenced  that 
note  of  triumph  in  which  she  might  have  indulged, 
at  the  thought  that  they  were  coming  down  while 
she  was  going  up,  and  the  righteous  balance  was 
kept. 

At  the  end  of  this  conversation  he  chanced  to 
look  out,  and  pointed  across  the  Terrace  to  where 
two  figures  stood  on  one  of  the  little  stoops.  Both 
were  young,  —  a  young  man  Vith  a  handsome  face 
and  mocking  eyes,  while  the  girl  was  slender  and 
had  just  such  an  air  as  would  suit  the  old  man's 
&ory.  She  had  a  strange,  earnest  face,  in  feature 
very  like  her  brother's,  only  it  did  not  impress  one 
as  being  so  handsome. 

"  Probably  she  is  only  asking  him  to  feel  and 
see  if  he  has  a  clean  handkerchief  in  his  pocket, 
but  I  should  like  to  know  them,"  Deborah 
thought. 

"It  was  such  a  good  face,"  she  whispered  all 
that  afternoon  to  the  wall-paper,  —  "  such  a  good, 
good  face,"  she  said. 

134 


Deborah's  Life 

She  forgot,  meanwhile,  to  feel  any  warning  in 
the  fact  that  her  first  impression  of  the  young 
man  was  not  a  favorable  one ;  she  had  said  to 
herself:  "  That  is  a  face  to  deceive  a  woman." 

This  conversation  marked  a  new  epoch  in 
Deborah's  life.  Enlightened,  she  began  to  climb 
the  ladder  that  she  had  not  been  able  to  reach  in 
the  old  days.  At  first  she  did  some  labor,  not 
important  in  itself,  but  it  was  mental,  and  that 
satisfied  her  for  the  present.  One  day,  after 
months  of  study,  she  obtained  a  certificate  to 
teach  in  the  public  schools.  This  opened  the 
gates  of  an  earthly  Eden  ;  but  something  of  more 
worth  awaited  her. 

She  perfected  herself  in  the  higher  branches, 
one  by  one,  and  when  she  became  proficient  she 
resigned  the  tread-mill  existence  of  public-school 
teaching.  While  she  was  still  young,  not  thirty, 
she  coached  wealthy  young  men  whose  athletic 
inclinations  had  interfered  with  their  studies. 

She  was  successful  in  this  line  of  work,  had 
more  time  to  think,  and  could  command  her 
own  prices.  These  she  accepted  carefully,  not 
over-joy ously,  but  gratefully,  for  she  had  had 
her  share  of  more  strenuous  labor. 


135 


XVI 
AND   WHAT   IT   MEANT 

THEN  Deborah  went  back  to  her  church, 
into  the  fold,  and  the  gentleness  of  her 
life  increased.  From  this  time  she  be- 
gan to  find  people  better  than  she  had  thought 
them,  and  she  also  found  that  all  the  oppression 
of  her  past  life  had  worked  toward  this  enlighten- 
ment. There  were  times  when  she  wondered 
how  this  forgiveness  had  all  been  granted,  but,  as 
I  have  said,  she  was  weary  with  her  struggle,  so 
did  not  attempt  any  analytic  research,  and  waited 
until  the  answer  came  of  its  own  accord. 

One  morning,  months  after  her  appearance  in 
the  Terrace,  she  felt  so  happy,  so  harmonious,  so 
equable  in  her  judgment  both  of  suffering  and  of 
motive,  that  she  wandered  into  church  out  of 
sheer  thanksgiving  towards  the  pleasures  of  exist- 
ence ;  and  as  she  sat  in  the  quiet  pew,  in  the  great 
empty  church,  her  gaze  resting  on  pictures  of  the 
saints  about  her,  she  suddenly  thought  of  Lud- 
wiga  Strong,  and  the  thought  was  like  a  vision. 

She  had  learned  to  know  Ludwiga  of  late,  and 
had  learned  to  love  the  soft  human  touch  of  the 

136 


And  What  it  Meant 

kind  hands,  and  had  thawed  out  under  the  unfail- 
ing warmth  of  the  sunny  smile.  There  had  been 
times  when  she  had  met  the  girl  in  the  Terrace, 
times  when  she  had  run  unexpectedly  into  the 
humble  home,  times  when  she  knew  that  the 
smile  was  perfunctory  and  not  at  all  in  accord 
with  the  owner's  state  of  feelings ;  but  the  light 
of  that  smile  never  failed)  her. 

At  first  she  had  thought  it  insincere  and  shal- 
low, but  that  day  in  church  Deborah  came  to 
know  Ludwiga  as  her  benefactress,  and  she  ap- 
preciated the  benefaction  at  its  full  worth. 

Though  misfortune  had  placed  Ludwiga  in  this 
lowly  spot,  she  was  bestowing  the  advantages  of 
her  birth  on  these  humble  dwellers  in  the  Ter- 
race, those  gracious  fruits  of  the  spirit  which  long 
generations  of  ease  and  culture  had  grown  in  her 
unconscious  heart.  She  was  a  poor  little  outcast 
Florentine  lady,  but  a  lady  in  spite  of  place  and 
fortune,  and  Deborah  felt  blessed  in  knowing  her. 
In  the  half-tones  of  the  Terrace,  this  girl  seemed 
to  stand  looking  out  with  her  honest,  beseeching 
eyes,  and  calling  out  to  the  darkened  souls  about 
her: 

"  Good  is  very  fruitful  !  —  believe  me,  ye  of 
little  faith." 

Then  Deborah  had  awakened  from  her  vision, 
and  had  gone  out  from  the  church  to  her  home, 
with  more  practical  beliefs,  better  in  mind  and 

137 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

body,  strengthened  for  her  part  in  the  world's 
work. 

There  is  always  work  that  we  may  do  for  the 
world,  but  like  the  many  other  people,  Deborah 
had  not  found  hers  easily  ;  in  fact,  her  position  had 
not  allowed  her  greatscope.  She  had  been  prone 
on  her  face,  but  now  that  she  had  risen  into  the 
sunshine  her  point  of  view  changed,  and  when 
she  looked  around,  the  first  person  of  whom  she 
thought,  and  to  whom  she  wished  to  contribute, 
was  the  Florentine  maiden  across  the  way.  She 
wanted  to  give  back  some  of  the  beautiful  love 
and  faith  and  strength  that  Ludwiga  was  ever 
unconsciously  dispensing. 

But  Deborah  asked  herself:  "  What  can  I  give 
her  ?  She  is  so  happy  —  her  brother  is  so  kind 
—  they  are  so  like  two  children  together."  Still 
she  went  to  call  on  Ludwiga,  for  all  that,  the  same 
evening.  She  found  her  alone  in  the  dark,  with 
her  face  pressed  against  the  window. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  my  brother  "  the  girl  said ; 
"  he  is  very  late  this  evening." 

"  Oh,"  Deborah  replied,  "  if  I  had  any  one  to 
love  me  so  much,  I  should  be  here  every  evening 
before  one  could  be  anxious  about  me." 

"  It  may  be  work,"  said  the  girl. 

Deborah  changed  the  subject.  "  Are  you  ever 
unhappy  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Often   I   could  be  unhappy,"  the  child  re- 
138 


And  What  it  Meant 

plied,  —  she  was  still  a  mere  child  in  appearance, 
although  she  was  nearly  seventeen  that  time, — 
"only,  I  do  not  allow  myself  to  be  so.  It  seems 
disloyal  to  one's  work." 

"  What  work  ?  "  asked  Deborah,  abruptly. 

"  Our  work  of  conquering,"  Ludwiga  answered, 
not  having  found  the  right  word  just  at  first. 

Deborah  laughed,  and  when  she  thought  a 
moment  she  laughed  again.  Then  she  said : 
"  You  are  one  of  the  funniest  girls  I  ever  met. 
I  have  not  met  many,  but  all  that  any  of  them 
thought  of  c  conquering '  was  masculine  admira- 
tion. You  should  take  up  that  work  also.  You 
know  a  great  many  people,  but  there  is  one  you 
should  know  better,  —  the  person,  after  all,  with 
whom  you  should  be  in  the  finest  touch.  That 
is  yourself,  Ludwiga.  You  should  fall  in  love 
with  somebody  and  find  yourself.  Then  every- 
thing would  be  more  real." 

The  words  meant  nothing  at  all  to  the  mind 
before  her,  in  a  personal  sense.  It  was  quite  dark 
now,  so  Ludwiga  lit  the  lamp,  and  made  every- 
thing pleasant  and  cosey.  By  the  light,  Deborah 
could  study  the  face  of  the  girl  and  see  how  it  was 
to  mature  and  develop,  for  the  blank  of  waiting 
was  already  there,  and  the  lines  at  the  mouth 
were  so  wistful  that  they  almost  approached 
suffering. 

"  I  wish  my  brother  would  come,"  she  said 
139 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

after  a  while  in  a  pathetic  way,  as  if  she  could  not 
help  it. 

At  that  moment  Deborah  commenced  her  war- 
fare against  Alfons  Strong,  —  a  warfare  which  was 
to  be  constant  in  its  vigilance. 

"  I  have  seen  women  so  foolish  over  their 
husbands  or  their  sons,"  she  cried  in  her  impetu- 
ous fashion,  "  but  —  a  brother,  Ludwiga !  " 

The  dark,  earnest  face,  already  with  lines  of 
care,  looked  up  from  a  basket  of  unmended 
stockings.  "  I  do  not  think  it  matters  if  a 
person  be  a  friend  or  a  stranger  or  a  relation, 
Deborah,  so  long  as  one  believes  in  good.  Little 
likes  or  dislikes,  and  time  and  suffering,  will  be 
so  elementary  after  a  while." 

Deborah  sprang  to  her  feet  with  a  certain  pas- 
sion at  this.  Then  when  the  humor  of  it  reached 
her,  calling  life  elementary  at  seventeen,  she  went 
over  and  took  the  face  in  her  hands.  It  had  the 
soft  texture  of  the  Southern  races,  and  yielded  to 
her  clasp  without  resistance.  "  You  little  fool,  — 
you  little  fool,"  she  cried ;  but  it  was  from  her 
own  past,  from  her  life  and  her  own  suffering,  and 
out  of  her  own  experience  as  to  a  beginner,  that 
she  said  it,  so  Ludwiga  could  take  no  offence. 

Deborah's  lessons  were  powerless  to  influence 
the  young  girl's  views.  She  was  a  very  simple- 
natured  creature,  but  her  views  were  not  the 
result  of  schooling.  They  were  deep-rooted,  her 

140 


And  IVhat  it  Meant 

very  own  except  for  certain  qualities  due  to  her 
inheritance.  No  one  had  taught  her  the  great 
fundamental  truths  of  life  ;  she  had  not  many 
friends,  she  knew  few  people,  so  her  theories 
were  uncorrupted  by  contact  with  the  world. 
She  did  not  know  what  Deborah  had  meant  about 
self.  She  was  Ludwiga  Strong,  she  felt.  When 
her  father  had  died  without  a  thought  of  any 
responsibility  toward  his  children,  she  did  not 
criticise  him  even  to  herself,  but  assumed  his 
place  with  a  simplicity  that  was  too  sincere  to 
provoke  very  prolonged  laughter ;  she  was  so 
young,  so  courageous,  so  solemn-eyed. 

Her  father  had  lost  heart  but  occasionally ; 
he  was  conscious  of  her  simple,  straightforward 
actions,  because  one  day  before  he  died,  he  lay 
looking  at  her.  "  She  is  more  like  my  New 
England  people  than  the  others,"  he  thought; 
she  represented  all  those  equities  and  ambitions 
that  passion  had  checked  in  his  own  life.  He 
loved  Alfons,  and  was  proud  of  Ludwiga,  but  he 
did  not  take  any  interest  at  all  in  the  third  child, 
the  one  who  died  later.  He  was  not  openly  proud 
of  Ludwiga,  but  that  one  day  it  was  all  summed 
up  in  a  little  thought  which  he  had  about  her  — 
he  somehow  felt  that  the  family  was  not  dying 
with  him,  that  she  was  the  legacy  which  every 
man  likes  to  give  the  world,  of  the  good  within 
him. 

141 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

It  was  in  this  state  of  mind  that  Deborah  had 
met  her,  about  the  time  when  her  brother  had 
fallen  in  love  with  Antonia,  —  the  foolish  creature 
with  beautiful  arms  and  an  inordinate  desire  for 
expensive  clothing.  At  least  Alfons  called  this 
love,  —  it  was  the  conventional  misnomer.  At 
any  rate,  everything  was  swept  away  before  it. 
He  would  leave  the  clean  little  home  in  the 
Terrace  without  a  thought  as  to  its  cleanliness  or 
prettiness,  just  as  he  would  lose  his  sister's  face, 
with  its  sweet  charm  conveying  its  high  moral 
lessons  to  him,  in  the  cold  tones  of  Antonia,  as 
she  engraved  herself  physically  upon  the  minds 
of  her  worshippers. 

One  of  the  most  touching  phases  of  their 
romance,  if  it  may  be  called  such,  was  that  Alfons 
loved  Antonia  beyond  his  measure  (for  that  was 
the  gauge  with  Antonia),  half  the  time  filling  her 
nonsensical  fancies  with  the  money  which  should 
have  paid  the  grocery  bill.  It  is  true,  Antonia 
did  not  object  to  that;  she  liked  him  best  in 
debt.  It  was  a  marked  contrast  to  the  sister's 
help  that  he  was  ignoring,  but  in  the  state  of 
mind  in  which  this  infatuation  cast  him,  he  did 
not  value  Ludwiga  at  all  in  a  spiritual  sense. 
There  were  times,  even,  when  her  love  seemed  to 
bore  him.  But  when  the  young  girl  herself  was 
suffering  most,  she  endured  her  misfortune  with 
all  the  fortitude  that  was  no  doubt  inherited  from 

142 


And  IVhat  it  Meant 

those  Italian  ladies  who  had  danced  and  smiled 
when  their  hearts  were  breaking.  She  went  on  be- 
stowing her  smiles  on  rough  fellows  like  old  Casey, 
and  her  attentions  on  old  women  knotted  with 
the  rheumatism.  Her  belief  in  good  sustained  her. 
She  raised  it  high,  like  a  banner,  and  lived  under 
it.  Her  mother  had  deprived  her  of  a  religion, 
but  there  were  times  when  she  found  a  fellow- 
worker  amongst  her  labors,  and  paused  at  such 
moments,  comprehending  God.  If  she  came  no 
nearer  to  Him,  still  she  obtained  more  good  than 
bad  from  her  life,  and  far  more  hope  than  doubt, 
—  but  for  all  this  her  life  was  a  shadowed  life. 

Meanwhile,  Antonia  completed  her  brother's 
education.  She  laughed  over  his  little  struggles, 
until  he  grew  hot  and  sick  with  the  shame  of 
being  honest.  It  was  such  a  huge  joke  to  Antonia 
that  Alfons  should  have  a  grocery  bill,  like  the 
good  young  men  who  were  fathers  of  families ! 
She  made  it  a  target  for  her  wit,  longing,  so  she 
told  him,  to  see  the  items  purchased :  "  Codfish, 
ten  cents*  worth  of  tea,  no  doubt  (this  for  the 
Puritan  sister),  and  small  quantities  of  sugar  !  it 
was  inexpressibly  funny  —  Oh,  Lord !  " 

He  writhed  under  her  banter.  He  was  very 
young  when  first  he  met  her;  he  had  so  much  to 
learn,  she  said.  Antonia  took  him  under  her 
soiled  wing,  and  taught  him  these  truths  in  her 
glib  fashion,  —  that  truth  and  honor  and  love  had 

143 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

been  buried  years  before  in  our  grandmothers* 
graves,  and  that  everything  was  wrong  except 
wrong,  and  that  Pleasure  sat  on  the  high  throne 
of  heaven,  and  that  we  were  to  kneel  there  wor- 
shipping. So  of  course  she  despised  not  the  cod- 
fish money,  since  to  her  debt  was  an  education 
that  rids  a  man  of  youth's  uneasy  conscience. 

Alfons  was  a  most  docile  pupil.  No  one  ever 
understood  why  he  loved  Antonia  so,  —  possibly 
because  she  did  not  love  him,  or  perhaps  because 
her  eyes,  like  the  Lorelei's  song,  drew  his  soul 
into  their  cold  azure  depths.  Of  course  she  was 
older  than  Alfons,  —  one's  first  loves  run  to  the 
extreme.  She  was  fair  and  cold,  but  very  lovely, 
an  arctic  breath,  which  charmed  the  boy's  wan- 
dering and  romantic  spirit,  used  as  he  was  to  the 
warm  responses  of  more  torrid  blood. 

Antonia  had  never  been  young.  It  was  not 
the  premature  age  of  Ludwiga,  one  that  lays 
loving  hands  on  the  spirit  and  shines  anxiously 
from  a  tender  face.  A  more  arctic  age  enveloped 
Antonia's  heart,  causing  Alfons,  as  Alfons,  to 
weary  her,  but  Alfons  as  the  buyer  of  baubles 
to  be  endurable. 

Some  women  are  false  and  bad,  but  are  kept 
respectable  by  circumstances.  They  do  not  fall, 
because  there  is  no  temptation;  perhaps  it  may 
never  come,  more  often  it  does. 

Antonia,  living  a  narrow  life,  aping  a  surface 
144 


And  What  it  Meant 

perfectness,  was  discovered  by  Alfons.  She  had 
looked  upon  him  with  wanton  eyes,  as  she  had 
upon  many  others,  with  only  this  difference, — 
that  he  knew. 

Sin  involves  so  many  lives.  Had  Alfons  and 
Antonia  married,  the  weak  and  evil  of  their  na- 
tures might  have  become  spent  within  domestic 
walls,  and  their  restlessness  been  dissipated  in 
family  jars  ;  but  while  it  is  true  that  this  act  would 
have  narrowed  their  influence  to  one  home,  it 
might  have  been  to  perpetuate  weakness,  idleness, 
indecision  in  the  issue.  Neither  was  ready  to  con- 
tribute to  the  world  ;  but  they  doubtless  would 
have  done  so  if  married.  Thus  in  their  separa- 
tion was  there  not  a  Hand  stronger  than  that  of 
mere  human  beings  ? 

Did  God  Himself,  —  for  the  success  of  God's 
own  high  purpose, —  in  His  own  time,  retrieve 
their  act  ?  Was  life  to  work  on  life  and  influence 
on  influence?  Was  even  Antonia  necessary  to 
some  one  ?  Was  there  a  height  which  she  might 
mount,  strong  to  stand  in  the  bright  light  that 
beats  upon  the  virtuous  —  strong  to  bear  the 
weight  of  a  little  child  tugging  on  her  hands  — 
up  to  manhood  ?  It  is  a  great  test,  that  strength 
—  such  an  Antonia  the  result  of  labor.  Were 
the  billows  to  be  "  God's  billows,"  in  Kingsley's 
words  ? 


10 


145 


XVII 
THE   TURN   OF   THE   TIDE 

AFONS  was  the  first  to  repent.  She  grew 
enchantingly  beyond  him,  — laughed, 
sneered,  scoffed  at  him,  who  had  been 
her  first  tutor.  They  had  not  been  a  year  to- 
gether when  Alfons  suffered  a  disadvantage,  she 
had  taken  so  kindly  to  immorality !  He  began 
to  amuse  her  in  numberless  ways,  affording  her 
countless  themes  for  laughter.  One  could  not 
keep  good  very  long  with  Antonia  as  a  compan- 
ion. Presently,  his  ridiculous  notions  of  honor 
were  a  memory,  dissolved  into  air  by  her  light 
sarcasms. 

He  had  offered  to  marry  her  once,  burdened 
as  he  was  with  the  sense  of  wrong  he  had  done 
her.  She  had  laughed  at  him,  patting  him  in  a 
motherly  way,  until  the  hot  blood  had  burned 
his  face  like  fire. 

"  Marry  ?  I  ?  And  where  has  the  good  boy 
been?  Off  to  the  Sabbath  class,  I  wonder? 
Ah  ?  R-i-c-h  !  We  women  do  not  marry  boys 
like  you.  We  wait  for  the  rich  ones." 

146 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide 

He  sat  very  still  after  that,  staring  at  her, 
wondering  why  men  loved  bad  women  and  yet 
could  so  hate  them  at  the  same  time.  So  the 
thought  of  marriage  left  Alfons's  head,  and  with  it 
some  ideals  of  honor  and  virtue  and  womanhood. 

Gradually  he  became  like  the  rest,  toying  with 
earnestness ;  one  who  laughed  rather  than  sneered 
at  those  beautiful  truths  that  are  taught  to  chil- 
dren. Desire  and  passion  were  the  only  realities. 
They  are  idle  winds,  but  they  are  destructive ;  so 
his  little  lamp  of  truth  went  out,  and  Alfons's 
ways  went  wrong. 

Antonia  did  not  care  to  marry  Alfons.  She 
grew  more  beautiful,  more  vain,  and  more  shallow, 
as  the  years  went  on.  She  had  yet  to  approach 
her  zenith.  Instinctively  she  knew  this;  also, 
the  result,  that  her  face  and  her  manner  might 
yet  secure  for  her  a  wealthy  marriage.  She  could 
joke  about  Alfons's  poverty  at  a  distance,  but  at 
any  thought  of  marriage  with  him  she  would  shud- 
der and  smell  the  codfish  cooking,  and  by  reach- 
ing out  her  arms  could  touch  the  narrow  walls 
of  their  bridal  apartments,  and  see  herself  in  a 
dingy  wrapper,  getting  their  meals  on  the  now 
historical  oil-stove.  It  was  painfully  realistic. 
Men  take  so  many  privileges  with  their  wives. 

Alfons  as  a  lover  was  not  so  bad.  His  jealous 
face  and  his  courtly  airs,  and  his  passionate  ad- 
miration, were  very  agreeable  at  times.  Gradu- 

147 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

ally,  as  I  have  said,  he  became  more  like  other 
men  who  knew  her,  careless  of  home  and  honor, 
a  trifle  sceptical  of  virtue,  an  idle  laugher  at  social 
crimes.  He  learned  all  this  on  the  grocer's 
money ;  putting  pretty  trinkets  into  Antonia' s 
hands  ;  helping  to  make  her  a  queen  of  fashion ; 
while  up  on  the  hill  at  which  Antonia  laughed,  a 
young  face  very  like  his  own  used  to  wait  and 
wonder  about  it,  her  old  rusty  black  alpaca  gown 
making  a  strong  contrast  with  Antonia's  latest 
silk  one. 

Antonia  had  not  the  kind  heart  of  the  demi- 
monde. She  ridiculed  Ludwiga  to  her  brother, 
—  not  openly,  of  course,  since  she  was  suave  and 
charming,  but  she  accomplished  her  purpose  with 
a  slight  touch  of  mocking  exaggeration.  She  was 
too  clever  to  hate  "  out  loud,"  as  the  children 
would  say,  but  under  the  cover  of  much  solicitude 
she  sneered  at  Ludwiga's  old-fashioned  virtues. 
Without  caring  to  listen,  Alfons  did  listen,  hating 
himself,  as  he  remembered  all  the  sacrifices  that 
his  sister  had  made. 

"  What,  bonbons,  my  reckless  Fons,  and  not 
bread  such  as  the  good  sister  likes  ! "  —  or, 
"  Surely  I  am  blest,  my  good  one,  in  having 
found  a  friend  in  the  little  saint's  brother,  else 
she,  and  not  I,  would  have  worn  this  fine  pin. 
Surely  it  sits  better  here  than  in  the  dark  hair  of 
our  virtuous  baby." 

148 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide 

And  when,  rather  boyishly,  in  the  ignorance 
of  his  first  love  scandal,  he  had  shown  her  his 
sister's  picture,  Antonia  had  laughed  aloud  at  the 
very  ridiculousness  of  it,  and  Alfons  had  gone  off 
by  himself,  to  a  down-town  restaurant,  hurt, 
proud,  repelled,  a  death-blow  given  to  the  first 
tenderness  in  him. 

Scarcely  eating,  pretending  to  read  the  news- 
paper, in  reality  he  was  studying  between  the 
folds  the  once  well-loved  face  that  stared  up  at 
him  from  a  cheap  card  photograph.  There  was 
so  much  faith  in  the  eyes,  but  such  a  poor  attempt 
at  the  stylish  in  the  unbecoming  arrangement  of 
the  pretty  hair,  that  it  was  pitiable.  Alfons  found 
himself  torn  by  conflicting  emotions,  each  ten- 
derly cruel.  One  was  honest  true  love,  called  into 
life  by  the  memory  of  all  that  his  sister  had  tried 
to  be  to  him,  blotting  out  all  her  awkwardness, 
until  only  a  heart  remained,  —  one  that  had 
never  failed  him.  Then  the  taunting  echoes  of 
Antonia's  laugh  were  borne  in  on  his  spirits,  and 
this  jeer,  laying  hold  of  him,  stole  the  sweetness 
out  of  his  little  picture  until  only  its  lack  of  grace 
was  left  him.  It  is  a  sad  and  complex  emotion, 
this  hard  thing  which  may  come  easily  to  us,  but 
will  never  go  while  remorse  can  overtake  it, — 
idle  shame  of  those  who  have  faith  in  our  love. 

Ludwiga  yearned  over  him  in  silence.  She 
made  pathetic  attempts  at  enlivening  his  evenings 

149 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

at  home,  learning  to  play  cards  to  interest  him, 
asking  her  few  friends  in  to  amuse  him.  Failing 
in  all  these  efforts  to  arouse  him,  and  divert  his 
mind  into  domestic  channels,  she  would  turn  for 
comfort  to  the  kind  old  man  who  had  interested 
Deborah  in  her.  He  was  a  very  present  help  in 
her  time  of  trouble.  He  met  her  always  with 
consoling  words,  consumed  with  pity  as  he  was 
at  the  overwhelming  burden  of  care  revealed  in 
her  eyes. 

"  Let  us  be  patient  a  little  longer ;  the  tide 
will  turn.  It  is  like  everything  else,  little  friend, 
—  accident  oftener  than  effort  answers  our 
prayers." 

Presently  she  grew  philosophic.  Sooner  or 
later  the  end  must  come.  In  the  meantime 
Alfons  retrograded. 

Antonia's  influence  was  all-pervading.  It  was 
subtle  in  its  power  over  him.  It  threatened  to 
destroy  home,  honor,  family  love,  and  his  future 
prospects,  when  suddenly  Ludwiga  found  her 
path  lighted  by  a  glimmer  of  hope.  One  night, 
when  walking  with  Alfons,  they  had  stumbled 
across  Antonia,  dressed  very  richly,  as  was  usual. 
Gradually  they  approached  each  other,  Ludwiga 
turning  very  pale  with  the  stress  of  the  whole 
affair  upon  her. 

Antonia's  sealskin  sack,  her  dark  hat,  her 
suave  smile,  and  well-groomed  body  contrasted 

150 


The  Turn  of  the  Tide 

strongly  with  Ludwiga's  shabbiness.  The  acci- 
dent had  presented  itself  to  Alfons.  He  saw  the 
moral  difference  between  them.  Then,  with  his 
sister's  arm  drawn  through  his  own  more  closely, 
they  passed  Antonia.  He  had  not  bowed. 

Antonia  never  forgave  him  for  drawing  the 
line.  They  had  a  bitter  quarrel  and  parted. 
One  day,  unable  to  stand  the  separation  any 
longer,  Alfons  called,  only  to  find  himself  sup- 
planted. Antonia's  rich  lover,  long  looked  for, 
had  arrived.  Alfons  wanted  to  kill  himself,  and 
was  very  unhappy  for  some  time  about  it,  but  — 
need  I  say  ?  —  he  grew  more  reconciled  to  living, 
although  cynicism  succeeded  despair.  For  sev- 
eral months  he  professed  to  hate  women,  and 
possibly  he  failed  to  tender  them  his  place  in  the 
street-car,  or  show  similar  evidences  of  his  esteem. 
Then  he  had  become  acquainted  with  Deborah, 
and  her  coming  was  like  a  drink  of  cold  water  to 
a  burning  throat.  He  did  not  agree  with  her 
views  of  life,  nor  did  he  approve  of  her  mode  of 
living,  but  she  added  to  the  flavor  of  existence, 
and  they  passed  many  moments  in  the  enjoyment 
of  each  other's  company,  although  they  were  not 
aware  of  the  enjoyment. 

His  serenity,  which  nothing  seemed  to  ruffle, 
was  palliation  to  her  adverse  opinions  of  him, 
while  the  stern  grip  she  held  on  life  lent  a  subtle 
strength  to  the  indecision  of  his  own. 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

It  is  not  a  pretty  story,  this  story  of  Alfons's. 
It  is  sad  and  miserable  and  unhappy.  It  is  weak, 
too,  and  the  page  should  be  turned  down  on  it ; 
but  that  will  not  do.  God  wants  the  whole  of 
life,  and,  after  all,  I  think  we  are  like  Him,  in 
our  little  way. 


152 


XVIII 
A  YOUNG  MAN'S  FANCIES 

SPRING   was   in    the   air.     There  was    no 
triumphant    unfolding    of  nature,  but  the 
season  was  in  the  air.     Alfons,  —  we  shall 
judge  the  rest  by  him,  —  Alfons  went  forth  of  a 
morning,  with    his    boutonntire,    his    soft,    sweet 
eyes,  his  ready  laugh,  his  trim  gray  clothing,  and 
came  back  when  the  day  was  ended,  fresh   and 
smiling.    "  Work  is  not  so  bad,"  he  would  say 
to  Ludwiga,  "when  one's  mind  is  not  on  it,— 
and  there  is  the  money." 

A  skimmer  of  unfathomed  waters,  Alfons ! 
His  mind,  wherever  it  was,  seemed  to  be  in  a 
happy  state.  He  stopped  short  of  extremes  that 
springtime,  living  beautifully  and  entirely  in  a 
physical  sense.  He  was  at  peace  with  nature, 
eating,  sleeping,  smiling,  dressing,  all  enjoyably 
in  turn,  nor  did  he  dwell  with  one  emotion  over- 
long,  lest  that  might  grow  tiresome.  He  would 
go  to  bed  in  the  starlit  evening  and  awaken  of 
his  own  accord  in  the  morning,  as  if  Arcadian 
dreams  had  retoned  and  rebuilded. 

153 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

One  morning,  having  gone  out  to  his  sister's 
flower-pot  garden,  he  found  her  already  amongst 
her  blossoms. 

"  Why,  what  are  you  doing  up  so  early  ?  "  he 
asked  her.  "  Your  eyes  look  as  if  you  should 
be  communing  with  Mount  Olympus,  and  here 
you  are  hunting  rheumatism  in  the  mud." 

She  was  looking  up  sweet  as  one  of  her  own 
trembling  flowers,  and  smiling  a  reflection  of  his 
own  smile,  yet  very  tender,  very  pure  she  looked. 
Her  words  expressed  both  these  feelings  naively : 
"  Life  is  very  beautiful,  Fons." 

The  sight  was  good  to  behold. 

His  meals  were  enjoyed  in  the  same  light  and 
happy  way,  and  did  one  call  him  away  in  the 
midst  of  one  he  seldom  went  back  as  of  old  to 
finish. 

It  was  as  if  he  were  in  greater  accord  with 
creation,  and  Deborah,  the  Bachelor  Woman, — 
she  who  was  opposed  to  men  on  principle,  and 
to  Alfons  in  particular,  —  stood  and  waited  in 
this  quiet  Terrace,  and  once  in  the  dim  half-light 
of  her  bedroom  she  broke  into  some  strange 
murmured  words  to  heaven :  "  Thank  God  that 
Alfons  has  reformed."  She  also  serves  who 
only  stands  and  waits. 

In  the  beauty  of  life  that  spring,  it  is  not  strange 
that  they  came  nearer  together,  this  quiet-hearted 
girl  and  this  gay  young  man.  They  forgave  each 

154 


A  Young  Mans  Fancies 

other  more  freely,  and  were  more  lenient  to  each 
other  in  numerous  ways.  One  evening,  when 
they  had  been  at  the  Spanish  restaurant,  and  had 
fallen  behind  the  others  on  their  way  up  the  hill, 
Alfons  paused  in  the  very  midst  of  a  light  jest, 
and  became  very  earnest  for  a  minute  or  two. 
He  said  that  he  had  met  an  old  Terrace  woman 
coming  up  the  hill  that  evening,  and  that  she 
had  been  very  happy  because  she  had  found  her 
eyeglasses  which  had  been  lost.  Now,  every  one 
believed  in  this  debonair  young  man  because  he 
had  such  manners,  —  manners  which  you  can 
seldom  find  in  first  generations,  unless  the  heart 
be  very  fine,  —  and  all  the  old  women  told  their 
troubles  to  him.  So  this  old  woman  told  him 
quite  simply  "  that  it  was  a  prayer  to  Saint  Anthony 
which  had  restored  her  glasses,  a  prayer  to  Saint 
Anthony  of  Padua,  who  restores  what  is  lost  to 
people."  She  thought  that  he  was  interested  in 
it,  his  expression  was  so  mild,  so  sympathetic. 
So  far  so  good  for  this  graceless  Alfons  ;  but  as 
he  walked  up  the  hill  that  evening  he  saw  an 
excellent  opportunity  in  the  story.  It  might 
assist  him  to  introduce  a  new  variation  to  his 
perpetual  chaffing  of  Deborah,  so  he  asked  very 
gravely  :  "  Do  young  ladies  ever  pray  for  their 
hearts  ?  "  and  Deborah  had  not  taken  it  quite 
as  he  expected,  because  the  atmosphere  was  vio- 
lent for  a  moment,  and  of  course  he  must  have 

155 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

said  something  serious  to  smooth  matters ;  but 
later,  under  the  quiet  stars,  he  felt  vexed  about  it. 
"  I  should  miss  Deborah/*  he  said  aloud  once, 
when  he  thought  of  it,  "  more  than  any  one  else 
I  know."  He  hoped  she  would  never  become 
really  angry  with  him,  while  for  her  part,  Deborah 
was  a  devout  churchwoman,  and  Saint  Anthony 
is  convenient  at  times. 

The  young  girl  of  his  household  lived  much 
as  usual.  Though  young,  she  was  full  of  old 
ways,  and  she  did  not  know  that  there  would 
come  a  moment  when  life  would  stand  revealed 
in  all  its  breadth,  and  depth,  and  meaning,  as 
Deborah  had  prophesied  it  would.  "  She  would 
find  herself/'  Deborah  had  said ;  but  the  time  was 
not  yet. 

Meanwhile,  she  did  "those  little  kindnesses 
which  most  leave  undone  or  despise  "  as  naturally 
as  some  bestow  pennies.  She  had  made  the 
Terrace  a  better  place  because  of  her  residence 
therein.  She  had  given  the  barren  life  of  Deborah 
a  true  religion ;  she  had  bestowed  a  flower,  a  smile, 
a  kiss  here  and  there,  and  all  these  humble 
people  loved  her  dearly.  Did  she  pass  them  of 
an  evening  clad  in  her  Sunday  gown  (for  that  is 
the  way  they  still  called  one's  best  in  the  Terrace), 
it  was  good  to  see  some  laborer's  cap  come  oiF, 
and  to  see  the  light  in  his  eyes  because  of  her 

156 


A  Young  Mans  Fancies 

recognition,  or  it  was  like  a  page  in  her  biography 
to  hear  some  old  woman  mumble, "  God  bless  her." 

She  had  done  her  little  task  very  simply,  but 
it  had  been  a  hard  life,  strenuous,  barely  under- 
stood, yet  the  task  before  her.  Out  of  that  life 
a  man  who  loved  her,  were  he  the  age  of  Julian, 
should  have  led  her  gently,  shaken  the  dust  of 
Bohemia  from  her  feet,  and  standing  one  day  in 
a  little  nest  of  their  own,  —  here  we  should  find 
them,  holding  hands,  and  the  man  saying,  "  God 
saved  you  for  me  !  "  This  was  not  to  be. 

Life  was  very  simple  for  her.  One  could  hear 
her  call  of  an  early  morning,  as  she  leaned  over 
the  railing,  and  though  her  heart  might  be  grow- 
ing weary  of  its  service,  yet  the  note  of  conscience 
was  in  her  voice :  "  Good-bye ;  come  home  early, 
I  worry  so,  Alfons ! "  Paraphrased,  it  might 
read  somewhat  in  this  fashion  :  "  Good-bye ;  come 
home  early,  I  worry  so,  Alfons  !  Then  why 
should  one  drink  or  gamble?  A  man's  only 
friend  is  his  pocket,  Fons.  I  hope  you  have 
an  unsoiled  handkerchief  in  yours,  by  the  way, 
—  and  your  boots,  they  are  polished,  Fons  ?  A 
shine  can  tone  up  the  oldest  boots ;  well,  out  of 
sight  out  of  mind,  old  fellow ;  good  riddance, 
boy." 

One  morning  —  this  she  knew  not  —  a  man  with 
copper-colored  hair  had  turned  towards  the  place 
where  her  voice  came  from,  and  love  going  where 

157 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

it  was  sent,  he  had  almost  stretched  out  his  arms 
in  the  void,  calling,  "  You  have  been  too  long 
dispensing  loaves  and  fishes,  —  the  remnants  are 
mine  !  "  But  that  was  only  the  glad  spring  tinge- 
ing  his  fleeting  fancies,  and  the  impulse  passed 
away. 

Julian,  for  his  part,  worked  better  after  the  teach- 
ing of  that  great  painter  of  whom  Mrs.  O'Byrne 
had  tried  to  tell ;  but  the  name  of  Benjamin  West 
would  have  meant  no  more  to  her  than  Leonardo 
da  Vinci,  or  any  of  the  rest  of  them. 

"  To  paint  one  thing,  —  to  paint  and  paint 
until  one  has  painted  that  thing  perfect,"  —  that 
was  Julian's  star  those  days,  and  into  his  rapture 
there  would  come  a  voice  —  the  voice  of  his 
friend  who  had  done  so  much  for  him  —  a  voice 
full  of  irritation,  crying  out :  "  My  God  —  but 
you  are  not  West." 

It  said  so  much  for  love,  for  the  boy  was  pro- 
gressing ;  but  men  are  often  so  blind  as  not  to 
recognize  the  invisible  work  of  the  spirit.  Thus 
Jameson  and  the  Art  Editor  were  wroth,  and  said 
they  could  not  stand  it ;  that  the  public  was  not 
educated  to  this  point  yet. 

They  told  him  that  the  people  were  not  up  to 
this  culture,  —  an  idealized  washerwoman  (that 
was  Mrs.  O'Byrne),  —  and  the  Art  Editor  had 
tried  to  argue  it  out  with  Julian.  He  was  a 
good-natured  fellow,  long-suffering  also. 


A  Young  Mans  Fancies 

"  It  may  be  truth,  Sonny,  but  there  are  three 
styles  of  truth  for  me,  —  the  brutal,  the  hysterical, 
and  the  real.  Realism  is  forgiven,  brutalism  is 
successful,  but  that  poetic  washerwoman  is  a 
twenty-first  century  evolution,  which  the  classes 
are  not  up  to  just  yet."  Julian  bore  all  this  in 
silence.  He  liked  the  Art  Editor  passing  well, 
and  friendship  can  afford  to  be  forgiving;  but, 
when  the  fellow  looked  over  the  little  batch  of 
offerings  in  silence,  and  actually  struck  a  match 
in  speaking  to  him,  and  out  of  the  silence  came 
the  vital  question :  "  Who  is  she  ?  "  Julian  told 
him  to  go  to  hell,  as  he  could  think  of  nothing 
more  clever  just  then.  The  Art  Editor  had  not 
intended  to  get  angry,  but  there  was  something 
in  the  advice  of  the  young  man  which  did  not 
please  him.  It  was  probably  the  tone  in  which 
Julian  said  it,  or  he  was  in  a  bad  humor  when  it 
was  uttered ;  one  of  those  humors  when  we  are 
unable  to  forgive  the  most  petty  slights,  for  years. 
He  did  not  forget  it,  and  on  thinking  it  over  he 
felt  constantly  aggrieved  when  he  remembered  the 
many  times  he  had  tried  to  turn  favors  in  Julian's 
direction.  "  Of  course  he  need  not  have  gone," 
—  which  seems  the  masculine  palliative  ever, — 
but  still  Julian  was  ungrateful  to  him,  and  their 
friendliness  was  never  the  same  after. 

Julian  did  not  sever  his  connection  with  the 
paper.  True,  he  did  not  think  of  the  paper  much 

159 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

at  all  after  he  had  left  the  Art  Editor's  office  in 
a  huff.  If  he  had  thought  of  it,  it  would  have 
been  in  his  usual  way,  —  that  the  difference  would 
blow  over  as  others  had;  but  he  really  did  not 
think  along  those  lines  at  all. 

He  went  home,  and  when  he  picked  up  his 
pencil  again,  it  was  to  follow  still  in  the  footsteps 
of  that  man  with  the  wonderful  theory,  which  is 
so'  consistent  with  the  artistic  development  of  a 
young  man  in  love.  It  was  either  as  if  he  had 
not  quarrelled  with  the  Art  Editor  or  else  had  not 
remembered  any  vital  thing  which  that  worthy 
had  said. 

It  was  not  that  he  drew  Ludwiga  entirely  ; 
there  were  brief  recreative  moments  which  he 
devoted  to  her  setting. 

His  life  among  the  Terrace  people  had  been  a 
prosperous  one,  and  when  he  was  not  with  the 
girl  or  dreaming  about  her,  he  wrought  the 
humble  folk  into  pictures  of  interest,  —  impres- 
sions pleasing  to  the  eye  or  heart,  —  and  having 
finished  one,  he  passed  to  another,  pale  with  in- 
spiration. Whatever  this  force  which  had  come 
into  his  life,  the  secret  spring  had  been  reached, 
and  it  responded. 

Art  was  no  longer  mental,  in  its  entirety,  as  it 
had  formerly  been.  It  was  full  of  thoughts  and 
sympathies  and  emotions,  which  all  now  flowed  in 
one  direction,  governed  by  a  beautiful  harmony, 

160 


A  Young  Mans  Fancies 

toward  the  great  goal.  One  day  he  sketched  the 
tough  girl  with  whom  Alfons  flirted.  It  is  quite 
a  story.  The  tough  girl  lived  at  the  rear  of  the 
Terrace.  She  was  a  nice  girl,  but  "  her  father 
was  not  so  beautiful  as  our  father  was,"  little 
Grace  Strong  had  once  said  of  her.  Little  Grace 
had  been  the  child  who  died,  —  who  could  have 
expressed  it  better  ?  The  girl  might  wear  a  dress 
and  a  gay  Paris  bonnet,  but  some  way  one  knew 
about  her  father  without  being  told.  God  may 
have  made  us  all  equal,  but  we  must  have  taken 
to  highlands  and  lowlands,  of  our  own  accord. 

Ludwiga  showed  the  sketch  to  her  brother ; 
he  looked,  and  did  not  smile  at  it. 

"  When  was  it  drawn,  —  at  least  the  expres- 
sion ?  —  when  was  it  caught  ?  "  Alfons  asked. 

"When  you  were  hanging  over  her  gate,  my 
son  !  now  will  you  heed  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Ludwiga,  you  are  too  serious.  To  hang 
over  her  gate,  to  kiss  her,  maybe,  is  not  to  harm 
a  woman." 

Yet  he  was  impressed  by  Julian's  interpretation, 
and  decided  that  it  was  time  to  mend  matters. 
Her  father  had  nothing  to  do  with  it ;  there  was 
an  expression  in  the  shallow  face  which  Julian 
had  set  before  them  that  can  be  assumed  with  a 
certain  dignity  by  all. 

Alfons  did  not  stop  hanging  over  the  gate  all 
of  a  sudden,  —  it  would  have  been  cowardly,  so  he 
"  161 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

said  ;  but  he  compromised  by  a  change  of  motive ; 
so  where  formerly  it  had  been  amusement,  now  it 
was  pity.  But  the  saddest  part  of  motives  is  their 
impenetrability ;  so  how  could  the  girl  know  ? 

Mrs.  O' Byrne  was  a  central  figure  in  Julian's 
work,  —  a  large,  stout  woman  with  a  simple  joy 
in  her  eyes,  a  mother's  joy  at  her  power  to  do 
hard  work,  because  she  was  acquiring  great  wealth, 
as  poor  people  judge  it,  for  her  little  lad  who  was 
blind. 

Then  Julian  drew  the  bull  pup  and  the  round 
man  in  the  square  hole.  He  drew  a  child's 
worn-out  doll  with  such  subtle  art  that  one  knew 
the  lonely  thing  was  an  orphan ;  he  drew  ould 
Casey  on  his  plodding  road  to  Mass,  and  then 
he  drew  ould  Casey  coming  home,  and  the  peace 
on  his  face  was  passing  that  of  promise  because 
he  was  absolved  from  sin  and  freed  from  the 
crafts  and  assaults  of  the  Devil,  —  three  of  these 
were  his  cravat,  his  coat,  and  his  collar. 

But  this  work  was  not  satisfactory  to  the  paper. 
It  was  seen  with  the  Art  Editor's  eyes,  and  he 
was  wroth  with  the  young  artist,  and  this  trifling 
ill-humor  was  to  be  one  of  the  turnstiles  of  Julian's 
destiny. 


162 


XIX 
REAPING   THE   WHIRLWIND 

SUMMER  held  a  great  deal  of  heat  that 
year  for  those  of  the  faithful  who  remained 
in  the  city.     It  was  dry  heat,  as  is  usual, 
and   men   in  crowded   offices  went   home  more 
weary  of  evenings.     It   was  work   all    day   and 
then  dinner,  and  an  after-dinner  nap,  with  no 
very  restful  slumber  later. 

Amongst  other  inconveniences  and  discom- 
forts, it  was  the  kind  of  summer  that  works  on 
a  man's  nerves.  The  Art  Editor  and  Jameson 
were  amongst  those  who  became  changed  and 
fagged  of  expression,  but  Julian  paused  not,  nor 
heeded.  He  called  it  love  of  one  woman,  and 
liked  the  diagnosis,  but  it  was  doubtless  inspira- 
tion ;  at  any  rate,  he  was  well  content. 

A  Sunday  came  when  Alfons  went  to  call  on 
Miss  Deborah  Murphy.  He  had  a  message 
from  his  sister  for  her;  so  he  entered  the  attic 
with  no  other  intention  than  to  play  Mercury  in 
the  proper  manner ;  but  Deborah's  mere  appear- 
ance was  always  too  great  a  temptation  for  him. 

163 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

He  entered  noiselessly.  Deborah  sat  at  her 
desk  writing,  writing,  dreaming,  as  the  humor 
pleased  her.  Once,  when  she  said  half-aloud, 
"  I  wonder  what  is  the  matter  with  me  lately," 
it  was  too  unexpected  a  kindness  when  his  lazy 
voice  responded,  "  I  am,  Deborah." 

Deborah  said  that  his  presence  was  offence 
enough,  but  when  to  this  was  added  his  familiar 
utterance,  it  was  unpardonable.  She  glared  so 
indignantly  at  him  that  he  put  himself  about 
at  once  to  mend  matters.  He  said  he  could 
stand  indignation,  but  there  were  stages  even 
to  indignation.  Cold  indignation  made  him 
feel  worse  than  a  cold  dinner.  So  he  told  her 
very  meekly  and  very  contritely  that  his  remark 
had  been  only  a  jest ;  but  as  any  discerning 
woman  can  see,  this  was  no  suitable  amends  to 
a  lady. 

The  color  suffused  the  face  now  bending  over 
the  paper,  and  she  kept  repeating,  but  wholly  to 
herself:  "  Oh,  to  think  I  let  him  see  that  I  could 
have  imagined  differently,  even  for  an  instant !  " 

The  color  was  very  becoming,  and  Alfons 
admired  it  for  some  time,  after  which  he  said 
in  his  most  harmless  accents:  — 

"  Do  you  not  get  weary  writing,  Deborah  ? " 

"  Sometimes,"  she  replied  guardedly,  lest  he 
imagine  she  misconstrued  that  also. 

"  What  are  you  writing  ?  "  Alfons  asked. 
164 


Reaping  the  Whirlwind 

The  girl  raised  her  face  and  leaned  it  on  her 
hands.  She  became  younger  by  this  action,  —  a 
Bachelor  Woman  noted  for  her  youthful  looks. 

"  Just  then,"  she  said,  "  I  was  writing  to  an  old 
stout  woman  who  has  pleasantly  hinted  on  vari- 
ous occasions  that  she  may  leave  her  money  to 
me,  '  if  I  am  good ' ;  using  the  phrase  with  her 
glasses  on,  as  was  done  when  we  were  six  or 
seven.  She  is  not  an  unkind  old  party,  but  she 
has  long-distance  charities ;  although  even  they 
are  not  half  so  cruel  as  they  are  amusing.  She 
is  very,  very  stout,  wears  old  silk  dresses,  and 
saves  her  best  ones,  — just  as  Ludwiga  and  I  do, 
only  with  no  motive  or  reason.  I  read  to  her 
when  she  is  in  town,  and  now  I  am  so  well  versed 
in  her  ways  of  breathing  that  I  can  tell  just  where 
to  stop  throughout  her  naps,  and  just  when  to 
start  in  again,  so  that  she  may  not  know  there 
has  been  a  halt.  At  first  I  thought  this  quite 
clever  on  my  part,  —  sometimes  even  now  I 
think  so;  but  it  has  not  the  abundance  of 
genius  I  once  ascribed  to  it,  as  association  is  the 
greatest  factor  in  education." 

The  young  man  now  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
couch,  looking  down  a  little  and  frowning  slightly. 
"  I  have  a  great  many  faults,"  he  said,  "  but  I 
could  not  endure  such  an  old  person  just  for 
money." 

"  No  one  said  it  was  money,"  Deborah  cor- 
165 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

rected  politely,  "  but  of  course  it  is.  Besides,  she 
is  not  an  unkind  old  person,  as  I  have  said ;  not 
at  all.  She  loves  to  sympathize  with  sorrowings 
in  strange  countries,  and  as  I  read  of  them  to 
her,  she  leans  back  and  says  with  the  proper 
dramatic  effect:  c  Famines  in  India,  —  well,  well ! 
Suffering  in  Armenia,  —  oh,  poor  creatures ;  oh, 
terrible ! '  God  understands,"  ended  Deborah, 
quietly. 

"  That  is  not  religious,  that c  God  understands  ' 
of  yours/'  Alfons  broke  in,  as  if  he  wanted  her  to 
be  herself  during  one  interview,  at  least. 

She  kept  her  gaze  on  him  for  some  time. 

"  No,  perhaps  not,"  she  resumed,  with  a  burden 
as  of  regret  to  her  smile.  He  watched  her  criti- 
cally ;  he  could  see  where  some  great  element  like 
fire  had  swept  over  her  personality,  transforming 
its  surface,  and  all  at  once  there  came  to  him  a 
longing  to  know  the  secret  place  of  her  strange 
life  better,  to  be  able  to  sympathize  with  her  al- 
together. He  had  never  cared  to  know  before. 
With  such  a  life  as  his,  ancestry  represented  so 
many  excuses ;  there  were  times  when  he  had 
committed  this  or  that  moral  wrong,  and  relied 
on  the  characteristics  of  dead  and  gone  people  to 
re-establish  him  in  his  own  self-respect.  Nearly 
every  one  knew  that  Ludwiga  and  he  were  what 
even  Americans  call  "  of  good  family."  Because 
of  this  fact,  his  own  commissions  and  omissions 

166 


Reaping  the  Whirlwind 

had  never  seemed  quite  as  evil  or  vulgar  to  him 
as  those  of  some  common-looking  fellow  with  the 
clay  of  labor  more  than  of  earth  apparent  on  his 
hands  and  face. 

On  this  Sunday  morning  this  one  toneless 
young  woman  was  to  make  more  of  an  individual 
of  him  than  life  itself  or  his  own  position  in  life 
had  been  able  to  accomplish.  He  was  not  in 
love  with  Deborah,  not  at  all.  Alfons  had  car- 
ried his  heart  like  a  sweet-toned  guitar.  Did  a 
pretty  fancy  enter  his  head,  the  willing  chords 
responded,  and  if  one  were  snapped  in  the  break- 
ing, what  of  it  ?  There  had  been  other  strings, 
and  a  fickle  player  has  many  fancies,  so  what 
more  ? 

Assuredly  he  was  not  in  love  with  Deborah,  — 
a  strange,  colorless,  straight-backed  girl  who  pos- 
sessed a  violent  temper  without  possessing  the 
excellent  grace  of  concealment.  Deborah  saw  no 
reason  why  she  should  conceal  her  temper,  or  her 
faults,  or  her  mercenary  fancies  from  him.  She 
was  a  woman,  he  was  a  man,  Deborah  would 
have  concluded  fiercely.  There  may  have  been 
a  time  when  men  were  knights  and  women  merely 
the  colors  they  lived  and  died  for ;  but  in  Deb- 
orah's day  she  had  rushed  into  the  fray  as  a  sol- 
dier, and  it  really  never  occurred  to  her  to  use 
milder  weapons  than  justice,  harshness,  and 
truth. 

167 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

Assuredly  one  could  not  be  in  love  with  Miss 
Deborah  Murphy,  but  she  interested  Alfons. 

"  Deborah,"  he  asked  all  at  once  this  morning, 
"why  do  you  care  for  money  so  much?" 

He  was  staring  at  her  through  his  glasses,  and 
she  had  never  seen  such  a  look  before,  from 
Alfons. 

"  Once,"  she  said,  "  I  was  very  hungry,  body, 
soul,  heart,  and  mind ;  I  was  very,  very  hungry, 
and  in  that  disorder  of  everything,  gold  repre- 
sents more  than  God  to  people,  unless  they 
are  saints.  All  the  people  by  whom  I  was  sur- 
rounded felt  the  same  way,  I  am  sure.  If  some 
one  had  walked  in  amongst  us  and  had  said  the 
name  of  God,  I  do  not  think  that  one  eyelid 
would  have  flickered  or  one  pair  of  lips  moved  in 
response ;  but  if  some  one  had  clinked  a  coin  in 
our  hearing,  there  would  have  been  almost  an 
uprising,  until  some  hungry  degenerate  one  had 
gained  possession  of  it." 

He  removed  his  glasses  and  dropped  his  head 
slightly. 

Deborah  went  on :  "  Whenever  I  look  at  a 
newly  coined  piece  of  gold  I  think  of  that,  and 
how  for  years  and  years  after,  actual  currency 
was  life,  life's  object,  life's  reward.  When  my 
family  was  poorest  a  twenty-dollar  gold-piece 
meant  food ;  the  next  stage  it  meant  just  money, 
holding,  possessing  money  ;  stage  three,  it  meant 

168 


Reaping  the  Whirlwind 

becoming  more  like  other  people,  all  I,  I,  I ; 
stage  four,  it  meant  an  almost  mad  sense  of 
power,"  —  Deborah  hesitated. 

"  And  now  ? "  questioned  Alfons. 

"It  means  nothing  at  all,"  Deborah  replied 
simply :  "  It  means  nothing  whatever,  only  I 
keep  on  striving  to  get  it,  striving  to  enlarge  my 
capital/'  She  smiled  pathetically.  "  I  often 
wonder  what  I  shall  really  do  when  I  actually 
possess  a  great  deal  of  money,  at  last.  Some- 
times I  think  and  think,  but  I  can  never  see 
myself  doing  anything  but  laying  it  in  the  lap 
of  Misfortune,  that  old  Misfortune,  with  a  sob. 
The  sob  would  be  for  recollection,  not  for  regret, 
Alfons." 

The  young  man  rose  to  his  feet.  Her  voice 
had  become  very  womanly  and  had  gone  clear 
through  him. 

"  I  am  proud  of  you,  Deborah,"  he  said.  "  It 
is  a  fine  thing  for  a  girl  to  fight  life  and  come  out 
brave  and  great  and  upright.  Oh,  it  is  a  fine, 
fine  thing,  one  of  the  finest  things  a  man  can  hear 
of.  It  makes  him  better,  more  manly,  through 
shame." 

The  girl  looked  up,  her  eyes  shining,  but  it 
was  a  proof  of  her  generosity  that  she  did  not 
think  then  of  herself. 

"Your  sister  has  fought  life  bravely,  greatly, 
uprightly,"  she  repeated.  "You  have  needed 

169 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

but  to  reach  out  your  hand  all  these  years  to 
have  touched  her  hand  and  realized  your  ideal." 

It  was  like  a  return  wave,  which  made  him 
speechless. 

"  Oh,  she  is  my  little  scapegoat  of  Bohemia," 
he  said  after  a  second. 

He  went  down  the  stairs,  away,  away,  after  he 
had  said  it.  He  could  not  bear  to  look  in  Deb- 
orah's eyes  nor  read  her  judgment  in  them.  His 
little  scapegoat  of  Bohemia !  He  had  never 
realized  before,  but  what  a  phrase  in  this  light ! 
What  a  long  wrong,  what  an  idle,  thoughtless 
lack  of  manhood ! 

Alfons  went  down  the  steps,  having  forgotten  to 
deliver  his  sister's  message.  She  wished  Deborah 
to  dine  with  them  as  usual  that  evening,  and  she 
was  to  come  as  guest  de  convenance  as  well. 
In  other  words,  if  affairs  went  wrong,  Deborah 
was  to  stand  by  the  ship,  like  Casabianca,  but 
otherwise  she  was  merely  to  come  with  unim- 
paired conversational  powers  and  half  a  dozen 
rather  fine  bits  of  table  silver  of  which  every  one 
was  justly  proud. 

Left  alone  in  the  attic,  Deborah  wrote  nor 
dreamed  not,  but  suffered  from  the  supersensitive 
fears  of  a  just  woman.  "  I  have  been  hard  on 
him,"  Deborah  thought. 

It  has  been  told  that  a  stranger  went  into  a 
man's  tent  for  shelter,  and  during  the  night 

170 


Reaping  the  Whirlwind 

blasphemed  God,  and  was  ordered  to  depart.  In 
the  morning  the  Most  High  appeared  and  asked, 
"  Where  is  the  stranger  I  sent  you  ? "  The  man 
replied  :  "  He  blasphemed  Thee,  and  I  sent  him 
forth."  This  was  the  Divine  reproach  :  "  Forty 
years  have  I  been  patient  with  that  man.  Could 
you  not  have  borne  with  him  one  night  ?  " 

"  That  is  Ludwiga  and  I,"  Deborah  said  over 
and  over. 


171 


XX 

WHAT   THE   SUMMER   BROUGHT 

BUT    it   is    Julian's   history    which    is    all- 
important.       Alfons    and    Deborah    are 
merely    intruders    into    Julian's    history, 
which  is  that  of  a  brilliant  career. 

While  Deborah  and  Alfons  were  fencing  with 
great  swords  that  morning,  the  young  artist  lay 
abed  as  usual.  He  made  few  exceptions  to  the 
rule,  and  was  wont  to  call  down  to  Mrs.  Mamma 
later,  "  Soon  I  shall  die  of  hunger ;  nothing  but 
a  cup  of  coffee  administered  immediately  will  save 
my  life." 

She  liked  the  boyish  sound  of  it,  and  up  she 
would  come  with  well-laden  tray  and  steaming 
coffee,  calling  on  the  saints  to  bless  him  for  a 
bonny  fraud.  "  You  're  welcome,  you  're  wil- 
come,  you  're  welcome,"  she  would  say,  mixing 
her  e's  and  her  /'s  a  bit,  just  as  the  blind  laddie 
did  also. 

After  Julian's  life  had  been  saved,  he  would 
work  for  hours  over  some  scrap  of  sketch  only  to 
tear  it  up  later,  or  he  would  write  a  long,  newsy 
letter  to  his  mother. 

172 


What  the  Summer  Brought 

This  morning  the  usual  programme  was  fol- 
lowed out.  He  had  called  to  Mrs.  O'Byrne,  he 
had  drunk  his  coffee,  he  had  dreamed  a  great 
deal  of  half-Latin  optimism  as  usual,  and  when 
Jameson  glanced  over  the  edge  of  his  paper  last, 
the  young  man  was  sitting  at  a  desk  and  was 
writing  to  his  mother. 

"  Jameson,"  he  said,  "  when  I  write  to  mother, 
I  usually  tell  her  all  the  news  about  everything, 
—  all  the  Terrace  except  the  girl.  I  do  not 
know  why  I  did  n't  tell  her  about  the  girl,  but 
after  this,  does  n't  one  understand  though  ?  " 

He  picked  up  his  mother's  last  letter,  explain- 
ing boyishly,  "  You  see  in  my  last  letter,  just 
for  fun  I  asked  her  what  she  would  think  if  I 
married  some  nice  German  girl  in  time,  and  set- 
tled down  into  a  civil  old  farmer  under  a  big 
straw  hat,  and  listen  to  this  answer:  'She  will  be 
very  welcome  whenever  it  happens,  dear,  but  I 
want  you  to  be  an  artist  as  I  never  wanted  it 
before/  '  He  put  his  pen  to  the  paper,  seized  by 
one  of  his  suddenly  splendid  moods.  "  I  think 
I  'd  better  tell  her  that  the  German  girl  won't  get 
me  after  all." 

He  wrote  on. 

"Your  mother  only  expresses  what  hundreds 
of  other  people  feel,  Julian.  If  you  were  to 
marry  just  now,  it  would  scatter  all  your  forces, 
it  would  lose  time  out  of  your  service,  it  might 

173 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

end  in  your  deserting  your  profession  altogether, 
and  settling  down,  as  you  say.  Now  the  question 
is  —  would  you  be  happy  in  such  a  lot  ?  " 

The  young  fellow  raised  his  face. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  after  a  day  or  so,"  he  uttered. 
"  I  am  going  to  put  my  luck  to  the  test  soon." 
Then  he  went  on  writing  his  mother's  letter. 
"Jameson  is  the  same  old  bear,  the  same  sore- 
headed,  fine  old  fellow.  I  think  it  would  be 
good  for  him  if  he  fell  in  love  with  some  one  and 
got  tuned  up  a  bit.  A  woman  can  do  heaps  with 
the  harp  of  life  when  it  gets  out  of  tune,  —  how 
is  that  for  a  poetic  fancy,  and  from  your  own  son, 
just  think,  you  spoiled  woman  ?  Mother,  I  want 
to  be  an  artist,  but  it  won't  kill  me  if  I  fall  on  this 
side  of  the  great  hurdle,  so  don't  fret.  I  've  come 
to  believe  in  compensation,  and  if  I  can't  get  the 
best  in  art,  I  may  manage  the  very  best  in  some- 
thing else,  and  that  is  —  what?  Ask  your  own 
heart,  you  sceptic.  You  say  you  want  me  to  be  an 
artist  more  than  you  ever  have  before.  Just 
to-day  in  this  sunny  little  room  I  want  family  love 
more  than  anything  else  in  the  whole  world,  —  the 
love  that  surrounds  a  man  with  actual  happiness, 
the  love  that  Jameson  fails  even  in  realizing  or  he 
would  n't  nag  at  me  in  the  way  he  does." 

After  a  while  he  sealed  his  letter. 

"  Jameson,"  he  asked,  "  are  you  going  into  the 
Strongs'  for  dinner  ?  " 

174 


What  the  Summer  Brought 

"  No,"  the  man  answered,  "  not  to-day  ;  I  have 
another  engagement/*  He  went  out  after  a  little, 
leaving  Julian  alone.  He  had  no  other  engage- 
ment, but  he  had  not  cared  to  go  to  the  Strongs'. 
He  had  grown  very  sure  of  the  Florentine  girl, 
but  it  was  torture  risking  her,  notwithstanding ; 
then  for  hours  he  did  not  think  of  any  of  them, 
but  towards  dark  all  he  could  conjure  up  was 
Alfons's  back  porch,  enclosed  in  its  latticed  rail- 
ing, and  lighted  by  sentimental  Japanese  lanterns. 
He  was  so  familiar  with  Alfons's  back  porch,  con- 
verted into  a  conservatory.  Alfons  would  stand 
off  there  tinkling  forth  emotional  strains  of  music  ; 
that  strange,  silent-eyed  Deborah  would  say  sharp 
things  of  occasions ;  and  Julian  and  the  girl 
would  be  standing  here  alone,  alone  — 

He,  Jameson,  had  stood  there  also  when  there 
were  twinkling  lights  on  the  bay  beyond  them  ; 
lights  on  the  distant  Marin  hills,  bright  lights 
below  them  in  the  city,  and  such  lights  in  her 
shining  eyes  ! 

It  is  said  that  "  when  we  sow  an  act  we  reap  a 
habit,  when  we  sow  a  habit  we  reap  a  character, 
when  we  sow  a  character  we  reap  a  destiny." 

Jameson  had  sown  his  act  when  he  rescued 
Julian  from  Antonia,  and  then  had  allowed  her 
to  stay  in  their  lives,  still  a  burning  brand.  For 
himself  he  had  no  fear  of  her,  nor  did  he  fear  for 
Julian.  There  were  times  when  Julian  had  seen 

175 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

Antonia  also,  here  and  there,  but  the  day  of 
her  influence  seemed  passed,  because  he  never 
seemed  to  have  any  interest  in  her  now.  Once 
Julian  said,  "  She  is  beautiful  certainly,  the  most 
beautiful  woman  I  have  ever  seen ;  but  beauty 
is  not  all,  Jameson."  This  was  said  during  the 
time  that  he  was  getting  acquainted  with  Lud- 
wiga.  He  did  not  pause  to  learn  all  about  art 
for  himself,  or  he  would  have  known  that  it  was 
not  Antonia  or  Ludwiga,  but  the  Perfect  Woman 
he  was  learning  to  appreciate,  so  that  some  time 
he  could  paint  her. 

It  was  merely  that  Ludwiga  and  Antonia  had 
justified  the  highest  to  him,  each  in  her  own  way. 
If  both  were  one  woman  there  would  have  been 
no  delay  in  his  life  or  no  moral  conquest  of 
Antonia,  as  you  will  see ;  while,  as  for  Jameson, 
it  was  something  in  his  character,  formed  by  a 
long  chain  of  circumstances,  which  made  him 
turn  to  Antonia  that  evening.  It  was  an  instinct 
akin  to  that  of  self-preservation,  not  clearly  de- 
fined, or  one  that  could  be  analyzed,  but  vital 
with  intention.  The  great  endeavors  of  all  life 
seemed  in  danger  of  being  weakened,  and  he 
needed  Antonia's  restoring  influence ;  yet  in  call- 
ing on  Antonia  for  solution  in  this  dilemma,  he 
brought  her  into  their  lives  again  when  she  had 
all  but  passed  out  of  cither's  interest.  It  may  be 
that  there  are  moments  and  impulses  when  we 

176 


What  the  Summer  Brought 

obey  forces  greater  than  our  own  small  wills, 
forces  which  impel  us  in  the  direction  of  great 
results  without  regard  to  our  own  opinions,  often 
indeed  in  very  opposition  to  our  own  opinions. 

In  his  turn  Jameson  was  to  carry  into  Anto- 
nia's  life  a  greater  helpfulness  than  he  had  form- 
erly been  able  to  offer  her.  It  was  the  gentle 
influence  of  that  girl  in  the  past,  Alfons  Strong's 
sister.  Antonia  would  grow  a  better  woman 
thereby  ;  there  was  a  wide  difference,  a  deal  of 
experience  between  the  Antonia  who  had  once 
viewed  that  humble  photograph  of  Ludwiga  with 
the  earnest  and  pleading  young  face,  the  Anto- 
nia who  cried  between  ear-splitting  screams  of 
laughter,  "  Her  dress  does  not  fit  !  "  and  the 
Antonia  who  was  to  learn  to  think  in  some 
lonely  twilight,  "  I  wish  I  had  been  a  good 
woman  !  "  She  grew  to  say  this  often  at  night 
in  the  magnificence  of  her  spacious  home,  when 
she  sat  silent,  beautiful,  alone,  while  the  twilight 
came  on  ;  those  strange  shadows  that  grow  into  a 
stranger  dark  that  seems  to  come  in  and  settle 
about  us. 

Jameson  reached  her  dwelling  after  a  long  walk 
under  a  heaven  of  stars.  It  was  a  handsome  build- 
ing, in  the  colonial  style  ;  indeed,  the  only  differ- 
ence between  Antonia  and  other  women  then  was 
her  desolation.  Women  had  not  taken  her  up  yet. 

Jameson  found  her  alone.     She  was  remem- 


12 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

bering  the  Sabbath  day  to  keep  it  holy  because 
this  was  conventional  ;  righteousness  was  to  come 
later.  In  the  few  moments  before  she  came  down 
the  man  studied  the  handsome  apartment.  There 
was  skill  of  upholstery,  skill  of  brush,  exquisite 
skill  of  arrangement,  but  no  trace  of  Antonia ; 
she  had  obliterated  herself  entirely.  She  had 
hot-house  taste,  and  this  was  the  impression  of 
some  dealer  who  knew  his  business  and  was  a 
gentleman-like  fellow  as  well. 

The  woman  came  down  after  a  while  and  shook 
hands  with  him.  "You  have  handsome  rooms 
here,"  he  said ;  "  they  look  as  if  they  should  be 
the  home  of  an  artist."  It  brought  him  around 
to  Julian  unexpectedly.  "  I  have  done  something 
to-day,"  he  began,  "  that  no  one  but  you  would 
understand,  so  I  came  to  see  you  to  get  it  off  my 
mind.  What  have  I  done  for  Julian  all  these 
years  ?  " 

"  You  have  made  Julian,"  Antonia  answered. 
"You  could  have  said  that  for  yourself." 

"  Yes,  I  could  have  said  it,  but  I  wanted  you  to 
say  it  for  me,"  Jameson  returned ;  "  it  sounds 
better." 

Antonia  smiled.  "It  is  the  only  answer  I 
could  have  made  to  you,"  she  said,  "  although  I 
like  your  modesty.  It  is  n't  a  bad  thing  to  have 
in  connection  with  well-doing ;  but  you  need 
never  fear  that  I  will  misunderstand  you." 

178 


What  the  Summer  Brought 

"  Oh,  I  don't,"  Jameson  exclaimed.  He  sat 
staring  at  her.  He  saw  her  sitting  like  a  glo- 
rious palm  in  her  conventional  surroundings. 
She  was  graceful,  beautiful,  splendid  physically, 
and  clad  in  a  gray  gown  to  which  she  conveyed 
her  individuality  until  it  became  like  heliotrope, 
the  color  that  best  matched  her  fair  coloring  and 
complexion. 

Jameson  took  in  the  impression.  "  I  think  I 
can  say  the  rest  for  myself,"  said  he.  "  I  made 
Julian,  as  you  say,  and  to-night  I  have  unmade 
him.  I  am  not  sorry,  and  I  do  not  want  to  be 
sorry  about  it,  so  do  not  look  at  me  in  that  way." 

"  Oh,  I  never  doubt  what  you  do,"  said  the 
woman,  "  but  he  was  such  a  lovable  boy,  such  a 
typical  artist!" 

Jameson  laughed  bitterly.  "  There  is  n't  a 
woman  on  earth  who  ever  stands  by  a  man's 
opinion  right  through,"  he  said ;  "  it  is  always  the 
feminine  but  or  if.  You  side  with  us  up  to  a 
certain  point,  and  then  you  are  yourselves.  I 
thought  you  were  the  one  woman  who  would  un- 
derstand how  and  why  I  deserted  Julian  after  so 
long.  I  have  had  him  turned  off  from  the  paper. 
I  went  down  and  got  the  Art  Editor  to  do  it. 
Julian  had  made  the  latter  angry,  so  it  only 
needed  a  word  to  accomplish  Julian's  undoing. 
I  think  it  has  been  on  my  account  they  held  him, 
anyway." 

179 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

She  continued  to  keep  her  eyes  upon  him. 
"Oh,  you  used  to  like  truth  so  well,"  she  said; 
"let  us  be  truthful  in  this  matter.  You  know 
they  would  have  kept  Julian  forever  on  your 
account." 

"Well,  if  you  want  truth,"  he  replied,  "they 
would  have  kept  Julian  forever  on  my  account, 
but  I  withdrew  the  motive.  I  told  them  it  was 
no  longer  a  favor  to  me." 

Then  she  commenced  speaking  intuitively : 
"  Of  course  I  understand  you ;  I  think  I  always 
have.  You  do  not  need  to  tell  me  any  more 
without  my  divining  that  you  had  a  good  reason 
for  what  you  did.  Perhaps  he  fell  in  love  with 
some  one,  and  you  see  that  this  is  his  only  salva- 
tion, —  his  only  chance  of  salvation,  to  be  correct. 
Of  course  if  this  is  the  case,  there  is  nothing  that 
you  could  do  about  it,  but —  I  hope  he  saves 
himself—" 

"  There  is  the  woman  in  you,"  he  said  again. 
She  sat  with  folded  hands. 

"  Has  he  fallen  in  love  with  some  one  ? "  she 
asked. 

"Yes,  he  has  fallen  in  love  with  some  one," 
Jameson  replied.  "There  is  something  else  I 
want  to  tell  you  about  the  matter.  Maybe  I  did 
him  this  turn  through — jealousy." 

"  That  is  rather  new  to  you,  is  it  not  ? "  asked 
Antonia.  She  continued  to  look  at  him.  She 

1 80 


What  the  Summer  Brought 

had  known  all  her  life  that  this  would  come,  but 
it  was  worse  than  she  had  ever  expected,  now  it 
really  had  happened.  It  was  not  pain  at  all,  but 
a  suffocation,  as  of  ashes. 

"  Entirely,"  the  man  answered ;  "  I  do  not 
know  that  the  reason  is  true,  but  it  may  be  true 
about  me,  because  I  am — jealous  of  Julian. 
I  met  her  after  he  did,  and  I  have  not  meant  any 
wrong  to  him,  but  it  would  come  —  the  feeling 
—  and  this  is  the  way  it  has  ended." 

"  Oh,  don't  think  so  poorly  of  yourself,"  the 
woman  answered,  —  love  was  making  her  far 
more  moral,  as  you  see,  —  "don't  talk  in  this 
fashion  about  yourself.  You  may  care  for  the 
woman,  but  you  did  this  for  Julian's  art.  It  is 
not  the  first  act  of  jealousy  or  wrongdoing,  it  is 
the  last  offering  of  a  generous  friendship.  You 
felt  this  sharpness  necessary  for  his  ultimate  suc- 
cess. You  felt  that  he  needed  awakening,  that 
it  was  time  when  he  should  stop  producing 
sketches  on  your  strength,  and  know  himself 
his  own  self,  and  his  capabilities  one  way  or 
another." 

"  Still,  I  care  for  the  woman,"  the  man  said. 

"  You  may  not  know  yourself  as  well  as  I 
know  you,"  Antonia  answered.  "  I  think  you 
would  be  the  last  person  in  the  world  to  do 
Julian  anything  but  the  best  turn  under  these 
circumstances." 

181 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

He  sat,  and  her  heaviest  punishment  was  that 
no  thought  of  his  was  for  her. 

After  he  went  away  she  stood  before  a  big 
sombre-hued  mantel,  staring  down  at  a  great 
empty  fireplace. 

"  I  was  positively  noble,"  she  smiled  to  herself. 
"  I  was  positively  noble  to  him,  and  I  meant 
every  word  of  it  too." 

Then  she  fell  to  sobbing  softly,  right  in  the 
midst  of  her  mirth.  She  was  lonely,  and  life 
seemed  empty  at  last,  —  nothing  very  paying, 
nothing  very  much  worth  while. 

She  continued  sobbing,  sobbing. 


182 


XXI 
THE   RIFT 

JAMESON  had  been  reassured  by  Antonia's 
opinion  of  him.  He  tried  to  believe  that 
she  had  made  something  more  than  a  tact- 
ful analysis  of  his  action,  and  he  spent  all  the 
time  reaching  his  and  Julian's  home  thinking 
of  Julian  as  he  had  known  him  for  the  past 
eight  years.  This  train  of  thought  meant  count- 
less memories,  almost  as  tender  as  the  memories 
left  from  a  friendship  with  a  woman. 

"  You  did  this  for  his  own  good,"  Antonia  had 
said,  "  not  your  own ;  you  thought  he  needed 
heroic  treatment,  and  your  friendship  was  great 
enough  to  give  it." 

He  had  gone  after  that,  off  toward  the  lonely 
hill  on  which  he  and  Julian  resided.  He  had 
lived  with  Julian  a  long  time,  and  he  was  fond 
of  him ;  thus  it  was  with  an  almost  fatherly 
love  that  he  dwelt  on  the  news  he  was  about  to 
communicate  to  Julian,  and  the  manner  in  which 
he  was  to  do  it.  He  felt  that  a  great  deal 
depended  on  that. 

After  what  Antonia  had  said,  he  did  not  doubt 
himself  any  more.  He  accepted  her  opinion  that 

183 


The  Siege  of  Yo^lth 

he  had  acted  for  Julian's  good,  and  he  was  willing 
to  stand  by  his  act,  but  he  wanted  to  be  lenient 
with  the  young  fellow.  Julian  was  like  a  girl  in 
some  ways.  He  needed  a  certain  coating  of  gen- 
tleness over  any  firm  dealing  with  him.  A  woman 
could  do  almost  anything  with  Julian;  but  he  had 
become  hopelessly  sulky  once  or  twice  with  Jame- 
son, and  this  was  not  a  time  to  tempt  a  failure 
with  him. 

Jameson  meant  all  these  thoughts  as  he  walked 
up  the  hill  toward  their  little  home.  He  had  few 
thoughts  other  than  these  for  Julian. 

It  is  true  that  he  recollected  once  how  happy 
they  had  been  in  the  Terrace,  and  that  this  might 
be  one  of  the  last  times  he  would  approach  it  in 
just  this  home-going  spirit ;  but  it  was  neither 
an  ache  nor  a  regret  with'  him,  because  in  his  inner 
consciousness  he  felt  that  this  change  in  Julian's 
life  would  make  a  change  in  his  also,  and  he  might 
have  another  home  —  his  own  home,  maybe.  It 
was  really  not  a  conscious  thought,  that,  but 
there  was  an  emotion  which  seemed  to  assist  it  in 
nearly  becoming  one,  as  it  went  trailing,  trailing 
close  to  actual  possession,  actual  knowledge,  actual 
—  selfishness. 

Man-like  he  did  not  think  of  Antonia  at  all, 
of  her  splendid  beauty,  or  her  home,  or  the  real 
generosity  of  her  opinions.  She  had  been  satis- 
factory just  at  the  right  time,  as  usual.  She  had 

184 


The  Rift 

told  him  that  he  was  honest,  and  he  would  rather 
be  innately  honest  than  anything  in  the  world. 
The  Bohemienne  was  intuitive  as  a  friend,  sooth- 
ing as  a  woman. 

He  had  once  told  Antonia  that  honesty  and  an 
appetite  were  his  besetting  sins ;  but  he  had  for- 
gotten honesty  (the  old,  strenuous  quality)  for 
years,  until  that  evening  when  he  had  looked  into 
Ludwiga's  eyes  and  found  the  old  treasure.  He 
would  have  smiled  in  the  dark  had  he  thought 
of  it,  rejoicing,  as  even  a  strong  man  will,  over 
the  fact  that  his  best  ambition  is  the  sympathetic 
medium  between  him  and  the  woman  for  whom 
he  cares. 

It  disturbed  Jameson  a  great  deal  that  Julian 
was  not  in  the  house,  and  evidently  had  not  been 
there  that  evening.  It  broke  the  beauty  of  his 
mood.  It  was  a  small  place,  and  he  went  from 
room  to  room,  —  his  room,  Julian's  room,  their 
parlor  (with  no  suggestions  of  the  word  in  its 
appointments).  He  went  into  Julian's  room 
as  naturally  as  if  it  belonged  to  a  younger 
brother.  It  was  by  far  the  most  feminine  room 
in  the  house;  it  contained  dainty  articles  which 
only  a  woman's  hands  can  produce;  it  had  por- 
tieres, cushions,  and  silken  scarfs.  There  were 
times  when  all  were  a  snare  to  his  feet,  and  his 
hands  would  have  done  away  with  them,  but  for 
the  love  of  the  mother  who  had  fashioned  them. 

185 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

It  was  such  a  boyish  love  as  yet,  with  occasional 
conscientious  moments,  rather  than  any  constant, 
monotonous  affection. 

Jameson  waited.  He  went  back  to  their  parlor, 
and  threw  himself  into  a  large  chair.  After  a  while, 
he  took  out  his  watch,  and  found  it  to  be  twelve 
o'clock,  and  the  discovery  influenced  his  tem- 
per somewhat,  in  a  manner  not  to  be  explained. 
He  sat  there,  unamused,  scarcely  thinking,  under 
the  gaudy  chandelier,  with  its  shadows.  Its  dec- 
orations with  Josephs  and  the  solemn  lambs  had 
never  before  failed  to  entertain  him  in  trying  mo- 
ments. He  stared  at  it  without  the  ghost  of  an 
interest  now.  It  takes  so  few  moments  to  disturb 
such  great  issues. 

After  the  last  stroke  of  twelve  Julian  opened 
the  door  and  entered  ;  a  cheerful  Julian,  whistling 
between  his  teeth  as  he  came,  a  modulated  exu- 
berance. The  six  months  just  past  had  not  left 
any  noticeable  imprint  on  his  features.  He  was 
still  young-faced,  joyous- tempered,  as  well  as  the 
embodiment  of  his  profession.  If  there  were  any 
change,  it  was  from  within. 

"  Hello,  Janae,  old  man,"  Julian  cried  when  he 
perceived  the  figure  in  the  shadow.  "  I  am  late 
—  thought  it  was  ten,  and  when  I  looked  at  my 
watch,  found  it  was  two  minutes  to  twelve." 

He  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  room,  hesitating, 
absorbed,  smiling. 

1 86 


The  Rift 

"  Then  I  escaped  like  Cinderella—  " 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  Jameson 
replied ;  "  so  I  stayed  up  to  say  it." 

"  Oh,  you  old  duffer !  I  suppose  it  was  to 
remind  me  of  my  great-aunt's  birthday,  or  some 
other  family  event  as  important." 

"  It  is  on  business." 

Julian's  smile  vanished,  but  his  expression  re- 
tained the  gladsome  look. 

"  Then  don't  bother  with  it,  Jamie.  Put  it 
off,  Jamie.  Let 's  leave  to-night  undisturbed." 

Julian's  words  had  not  been  well  chosen ;  at 
them  Jameson  rose  to  his  feet,  and  took  a  step 
forward.  Under  the  glaring  light,  there  was 
no  emotionalism  to  his  expression.  What  was 
evident  was  the  face  of  a  man  who  had  struggled, 
but  who  had  not  yet  seen  the  end. 

"You  are  sacked  by  the  paper,"  he  said. 
"  That  is  what  I  wanted  to  say  to  you." 

It  was  a  harsh  commencement,  very  different 
from  the  one  he  had  intended,  and  Jameson  knew 
it  was  harsh  by  the  effect  it  had  on  the  boy's  face  ; 
but  he  lacked  sympathy  and  concern  of  a  sudden, 
and  did  not  pursue  his  failure  nor  try  to  recall  it. 
He  just  stood  there  before  Julian  with  a  mad, 
dogged  sort  of  satisfaction  in  his  bad  news,  and  in 
the  fact  that  he  was  making  a  failure  of  the  whole 
affair. 

Julian  waited  some  time  before  he  spoke.  He 
187 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

had  been  unprepared,  but  there  was  something 
almost  manly  in  this  comprehension  when  it 
found  voice. 

"Sacked  by  the  paper  —  my  word,  but  it  is 
cool  of  them  ! " 

He  had  not  been  able  to  keep  the  flush  from  his 
face,  but  he  tried  to  laugh  as  if  indifference  were 
a  first  instinct  with  him,  like  that  of  self-defence. 

Then  he  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
and  unbuttoned  his  collar,  the  small  act  seeming 
to  bring  with  it  a  double  sense  of  relief. 

"  What  do  you  think  they  have  said  about 
me  ?  The  Editor  has  joshed  a  good  deal  of  late, 
but  I  did  not  think  it  was  serious." 

"  He  has  been  saying  a  good  deal  for  some 
time,"  answered  Jameson.  "  You  see  it  was  sure 
to  become  serious.  A  great  daily  paper  is  hardly 
the  kind  of  affair  to  turn  into  a  frame  for  one's 
private  fancies.  It  is  managed  so  as  to  bring 
dollars  from  the  thousands.  The  moment  any 
contributor  to  its  columns  forgets  the  purpose  of 
that  issue,  he  is  merely  paving  the  way  for  a 
somewhat  unaffecting  parting  between  himself 
and  the  manager." 

"  What  did  he  say  about  me  ?  "  repeated  Julian. 

He  sat  down  before  their  little  tobacco  table, 
and  stretched  his  arms.  He  looked  more  of  a 
man  in  that  moment,  but  there  was  in  him  still 
much  of  the  boy. 

188 


The  Rift 

"  He  said  that  you  commenced  well  enough," 
replied  Jameson,  "  only  lately,  you  had  let  your 
heart  run  away  with  your  head,  and  —  they  could 
not  stand  it  —  that  was  all." 

"  My  mother  will  not  like  it,  particularly,"  the 
boy  remarked.  The  thought  of  her  coming  so 
suddenly  to  his  mind  caused  a  suffocating  feeling 
in  his  throat.  He  sat  there  and  looked  at  Jame- 
son, and  it  was  at  this  moment  that  the  latter 
chose  to  speak. 

"  It  is  time  we  got  to  her,"  he  began.  "  One 
would  almost  think  you  had  forgotten  her,  she  is 
so  seldom  on  your  lips  in  these  latter  days." 

"  Oh,  no,  not  that,"  the  boy's  voice  broke  in, 
but  not  so  full  of  resentment  as  was  usual  in  a 
discussion  relating  to  her.  The  voice  was  more 
subdued,  as  if  the  reproof  had  been  deserved. 

"  Now,  you  have  a  right  to  be  treated  as  a 
man,"  Jameson  went  on ;  "I  have  tried  to  treat 
you  as  one.  Do  you  not  know  how  all  this  must 
have  affected  me,  when  I  have  seen  you  disap- 
pointing her  faith  in  you,  her  hopes  of  you,  de- 
feating the  very  causes  of  your  separation  ?  I 
took  you  away  from  her,  boy.  That  time  of  the 
'  Satire's '  offer,  I  said  nothing  to  you  ;  I  let  you 
choose  your  own  path,  follow  your  own  will, 
although  you  must  have  known  how  I  felt  about 
it.  There  was  your  father  —  my  obligation  to 
him  —  " 

189 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

The  old  generous  habit  of  the  boy  sought  to 
interrupt  him.  Jameson  continued  :  — 

"My  obligation  to  him  —  my  own  interest  in 
the  desire  that  you  justify  our  efforts,  and  com- 
mand success." 

Julian  was  staring  up  at  him.  He  did  not 
know  it  was  the  wrong  time  to  speak,  but  his 
pale  face  grew  brighter  of  a  sudden.  The  light 
was  beautiful,  like  the  face  of  nature  lifted  out  of 
that  darkness  which  precedes  the  dawn. 

"  There  is  no  reason  for  taking  this  so  hardly," 
he  began,  flashing  one  of  his  own  sunny  smiles 
on  his  friend.  He  took  a  deep  breath,  and 
continued :  — 

"  Don't  blame  me,  Jame,"  he  said ;  "  it  is  only 
human  —  feeling,  ending  like  this.  I  do  not 
mind  about  the  failure.  Mother  will  not,  either, 
when  she  knows.  I  think  we  spent  too  much  energy 
in  the  effort,  and  it  has  taken  the  enthusiasm  out 
of  the  hope.  I  do  not  feel  as  I  did  about  the  art, 
and  —  and  do  not  mind  its  having  ended  so." 

He  could  not  interpret  Jameson's  expression, 
and  so  offered  this  to  its  demand  on  him  :  "  I 
won't  try  to  thank  you,  old  fellow.  I  have  not 
meant  to  be  ungrateful ;  only  it  is  the  girl.  One 
changed  after  the  girl  came  on." 

He  was  warm,  and  went  and  stood  by  the 
window.  Outside  it  was  warm  also,  —  scarcely 
cooler  than  the  air  indoors. 

190 


The  Rift 

Coming  back,  he  went  to  a  low  shelf  and  took 
a  handful  of  sketches  from  it.  He  separated  one 
from  the  rest,  and  Jameson  got  to  his  feet,  so 
that  he  might  better  look  at  it.  It  was  a  good 
face,  not  weak,  but  showing  the  heart  wounds, 
and  a  few  lines  of  weariness,  and  that  smile, — 
eternal  in  its  optimism. 

"  It  is  what  he  meant,"  Jameson  said,  as  he 
looked  into  the  wonderful  eyes.  His  voice  was 
a  little  hoarse  when  he  got  to  the  depths  in  them, 
but  his  mind  rose  above  it. 

"  You  have  wasted  more  time  on  the  woman 
than  on  that  thing  called  art,  my  son.  None 
of  them  are  worth  it,  save  as  a  means  to  the  great 
result." 

Julian  tried  not  to  think  of  the  depths,  either, 
as  he  also  talked  of  art.  "  It  is  West,  you  see," 
his  ever-ready  explanation,  as  they  bent  over  the 
Florentine  head  together. 

".Perfection  is  success,  you  know,  and  perfec- 
tion once  attained,  is  possession.  I  have  only 
been  trying  to  attain  it,  Jame,  in  my  own  way." 
(This  hurt  Jameson  like  the  fine  edge  of  a  sword.) 
"It  is  the  fear  of  success,  of  its  greatness,  that 
makes  a  failure  of  so  many  sincere  attempts. 
Attaining  perfection  is  like  mounting  a  hill.  We 
expect  to  make  the  height  in  a  moment,  and  lose 
our  breath  with  the  stress  of  straight  racing; 
whereas,  the  fellow  who  conquers  height  by 

191 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

method,  wins."  He  paused,  but  Jameson  did 
not  reply  to  this,  so  he  continued  with  an  effort 
to  preserve  the  same  tone  of  voice :  "  Winding 
around  the  hill  gives  the  climber  advantage. 
We  gain  on  the  impossible,  as  it  were." 

His  accents  grew  more  tender.  Suddenly, 
with  an  almost  imperceptible  movement,  Jame- 
son reached  forth  his  hand  until  it  covered  that 
smiling  face.  He  also  had  grown  paler,  but  it 
was  not  the  pallor  of  weakness,  rather  that  ex- 
pressing the  strength  of  self-control. 

"  And  what  now  ?  "  he  asked,  looking  up  at 
Julian.  "  You  will  go  back  to  your  mother,  of 
course.  Afterward,  if  it  is  intended  that  you  see 
the  work  better,  you  will  drift  back  to  it,  but  just 
now  it  is  your  mother,  of  course  ?  " 

"  My  mother  ? "  the  boy  repeated  vaguely. 
"  I  shall  stay  here.  There  is  nothing  else  to 
think  of,  Jameson.  She  herself  would  see  that." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  here,  Julian  ? " 

"  Get  married,"  the  boy  replied,  still  smiling ; 
but  it  was  a  strange  smile,  with  joy  and  some- 
thing tenderer,  and  ever  deeper,  but  no  mirth 
in  it.  "  I  am  going  to  marry  the  girl,"  he 
said. 

Jameson  kept  that  cold  gaze  on  him.  "  And 
then  what  are  you  going  to  do  ? "  he  asked. 

"  What  people  usually  do  after  they  marry. 
I  am  going  to  live,"  was  his  reply.  Then  the 

192 


The  Rift 

other  man's  silence  wrought  on  the  ecstasy  of  his 
mood  like  subtle  poison. 

"  Give  me  my  sketch,"  he  cried  all  at  once. 
"  I  want  that  sketch,  Jameson." 

Jameson  straightened  himself.  "  Your  sketch, 
Julian/'  he  cried,  "  your  sketch  ?  " 

"Yes,  my  sketch,"  cried  the  boy.  He  had 
forgotten  something  for  years,  but  suddenly  it 
came  back  to  him.  "  Once  you  took  another 
one  away  from  me ;  give  me  back  my  sketch," 
he  cried.  "It  is  the  second  woman  you  have 
taken  from  me."  When  he  gave  the  sketches 
life  in  that  word  woman,  a  fierce,  deep  passion 
worked  into  his  eyes,  —  fierce,  deep,  and  futile. 

"  I  took  —  you  —  away  from  one  woman," 
Jameson  answered  very  deliberately. 

They  made  a  strange  picture  under  the  St. 
Joseph's  chandelier.  They  were  not  far  apart, — 
at  either  end  of  the  table ;  they  were  both  tall, 
but  Jameson  leaned  a  little  to  one  side,  still  hold- 
ing the  piece  of  white  cardboard  in  his  hand. 

"  I  took  you  away  from  one  woman,"  he  re- 
peated. "  You  were  hers,  and  I  had  no  right  to 
interfere  with  that  fact,  or  all  it  meant  to  her." 

It  was  a  fateful  moment ;  then  Julian  reached 
back  and  clung  with  one  hand  to  the  chair,  as  if 
in  need  of  support. 

"  Give  back  my  sketch  to  me,  Jame,"  he  said 
gently;  "it  is  of  the  woman  I  love." 
'3  193 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  And  of  the  woman  who  loves  me  !  "  Jameson 
returned.  "  If  you  had  not  been  blind  all  along 
you  could  have  seen  it." 

The  younger  man  did  not  try  to  leave  the 
chair ;  he  was  gripping  it  harder.  "  There  were 
times,"  he  said,  "  when  I  thought  you  liked  her, 
but  I  also  thought  that  it  was  on  my  account." 

He  still  stood,  holding  the  chair,  and  after  a 
little  Jameson  went  to  the  door  and  passed  out. 
He  kept  one  hand  closed,  but  lighted  the  gas 
with  the  other.  Before  this  was  done,  he  said  in 
scarcely  audible  tones,  but  still  in  articulate  man- 
ner :  "  He  looked  as  he  used  to  when  he  was  a 
little  fellow,  —  another  minute,  and  I  should 
have  remembered  the  time  when  he  said  his 
prayers." 

Left  to  himself,  the  boy  sat  down  at  the  empty 
table,  under  the  glaring  gaslight.  Sitting  there, 
he  straightened  his  numb  right  hand,  spreading  it 
wide,  as  if  he  were  smoothing  a  crumpled  paper. 
But  when  he  remembered  that  Jameson  had 
the  sketch,  he  sat  on,  and  on,  and  seemed  to 
comprehend. 

Jameson  slept ;  and  in  that  fitful  slumber  he 
dreamed  that  he  and  Julian  were  as  they  had 
been,  —  two  earnest,  strong-handed  comrades, 
with  a  smile  or  so  when  youth  asked  it,  and  with 
the  certainty  that  life  is  long.  And  once  Julian 
had  come  into  his  room,  in  a  resurrected  dress 

194 


The  Rift 

suit  and  a  romantic  air,  saying :  "  I  am  going  to 
propose  to  the  girl  this  evening,"  and  he  had 
reached  out  his  hand  to  the  glowing  youth,  saying, 
as  the  boy  clasped  it :  "  Once  I  was  young  my- 
self,—  at  least,  most  men  have  been.  My  best 
wishes,  young  fellow." 

Then  sleep  went  on  as  usual,  and  there  were 
no  dreams. 


195 


XXII 
THE   MORN 

IN  the  beautiful  cool  of  a  midsummer  dawn 
Julian  came  to  his  senses  again  with  no  grief, 
only  wonder.     A  fog  had  swept  in  during 
the  night,  but  had  lifted  early,  as  if  its  one  com- 
passionate purpose  had  been  to  cool  his  burning 
heart  for  him. 

It  was  a  pretty  world  upon  which  he  looked 
out.  The  sky  was  that  pale  blue  which  is  merely 
soothing.  Even  in  our  most  optimistic  mood 
we  could  not  find  for  this  blue  a  more  intense 
qualifier  than  "  cheerful."  From  the  height  on 
which  Mrs.  O'  Byrne's  upper  windows  placed  one 
there  were  many  adjacent  roofs  in  any  possible 
landscape,  but  these  did  not  jar  Julian's  artistic 
temperament  this  morning.  They  did  not  repre- 
sent anything  unlovely  or  inartistic  to  him.  A 
sentence  occurred  to  him  more  than  once  as  he 
leaned  beside  the  open  window ;  it  was  a  simple 
little  chirp  at  first,  but  became  like  the  song 
of  a  bird,  —  constant,  beautiful,  and  triumphant. 
"  They  are  homes,  homes,  homes,"  and  so  on 
almost  endlessly. 

196 


The  Morn 

He  turned  away  after  a  while,  and  went  on  with 
his  dressing.  Life  was  changed  to  him.  He  had 
made  a  half-unconscious  journey,  and  was  viewing 
it  from  another  point.  It  seemed  ages  to  him 
since  the  previous  evening,  when  he  had  studied 
a  girl's  face  flushed  with  cooking,  and  had  felt 
that  the  great  purposes  of  life  revolved  around 
it.  He  did  not  feel  so  much  unlike  himself 
as  the  Julian  of  yesterday  seemed  unfamiliar 
to  the  Julian  of  to-day,  the  Julian  without 
illusions. 

He  was  a  different  person,  practically.  We  are 
all  different  after  certain  vital  happenings  or  after 
certain  friendships,  certain  telling  days  or  years. 
It  is  the  time  when  our  experiences  have  been 
poured  into  their  mould  and  are  settling ;  but  we 
call  it  growing  middle-aged.  Indeed,  it  is  real 
life  within  our  reach,  life  as  we  have  never  before 
understood  it ;  but  wisdom  such  as  this  is  not 
ours  all  at  once. 

When  the  enlightenment  comes  it  is  well  if 
we  are  surrounded  by  palliating  circumstances, 
memories,  kind  glances,  and  uplifting  words ; 
otherwise  all  life  may  become  sadly  warped. 

There  was  no  harshness  in  Julian's  judgment 
of  Jameson.  He  did  not  say,  as  some  men  might, 
"  He  was  dishonorable  in  his  dealing  with  me." 
Life  had  ever  been  beautiful  to  Julian,  and  the 
beauty  of  his  youth,  now  completed,  would  have 

197 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

found  excuse  for  his  friend's  action  in  the  cause. 
In  reality,  he  was  very  noble,  very  generous,  was 
Julian.  He  did  not  even  question  his  ideas  on 
the  matter.  He  merely  knew  that  he  forgave 
Jameson,  to  use  a  homely  phrase,  because  it 
did  not  occur  to  him  to  harbor  great  resentment 
where  Ludwiga  Strong  was  concerned. 

It  was  the  greatest  compliment  he  could  pay 
her ;  it  was  the  most  delicate  proof  of  his 
homage. 

He,  Julian,  had  felt  Jameson  to  be  opposed  to 
his  love  of  Ludwiga,  because  of  Jameson's  devo- 
tion to  art ;  and  when  he  thought  of  the  night 
before,  it  was  without  that  surge  of  bitterness 
which  would  seem  so  natural.  He  himself 
grew  very  spiritual  in  his  regard  for  her.  He 
loved  her  still,  but  with  no  regard  to  life  or  sex 
or  person.  She  had  been  his  Beatrice,  the  influ- 
ence he  had  needed  to  exalt  humanity  to  him  as 
well  as  to  humanize  high  art.  She  had  not 
been  a  scheming  woman,  playing  on  his  dis- 
ordered senses  ;  nor  had  she  been  a  coquettish 
girl,  upsetting  life's  rich  treasures  for  him  as  if 
they  were  frivolous  bric-a-brac. 

She  had  been  his  friend,  she  had  stood  by  his 
side  a  few  miles  on  their  long  life  journey ;  and 
when  he  might  have  erred  or  hesitated,  she  had 
led  without  exertion,  not  recognizing  the  assist- 
ance she  gave  him.  Only  a  less  noble  nature 

198 


The  Morn 

than  Julian's  could  forget  this  now.  After  that 
night's  vigil  he  was  not  the  joyous  Julian  he 
had  been.  He  knew  Jameson  loved  Ludwiga, 
and  that  this  love  had  been  the  real  reason  of 
Jameson's  interference  in  his  own  little  romance ; 
but  he  felt  powerless  to  retaliate  in  the  matter. 
He  knew  that  he  himself  was  changed,  but  he 
did  not  dwell  on  it,  as  it  was  not  so  powerful  a 
change  as  it  might  be,  —  it  was  mainly,  in  a  cer- 
tain quietness  of  feeling,  analogous  to  Jameson's 
own  expression. 

He  knew,  too,  that  he  and  Jameson  were  to 
meet  in  the  morning,  and  he  faced  the  meeting 
with  a  moral  courage  that  Jameson  himself  was 
far  from  feeling.  He  said  certain  things  to  him- 
self while  he  was  changing  his  evening  clothes, 
and  otherwise  preparing  for  the  morning. 

He  had  sat  just  so  handsome,  passionate-faced, 
through  the  hours,  and  Time  had  prepared  him 
for  another  act. 

When  he  realized  all  this,  he  had  gone  into  his 
little  room  mechanically,  the  room  crowded  with 
evidences  of  his  mother.  He  had  entered  the 
room  to  get  into  his  morning  clothes,  to  bathe, 
to  come  back  to  material  existence.  There  was 
no  decision  as  to  his  own  future  course  of  action 
in  his  entering  the  homelike  little  apartment,  but 
suddenly  all  had  been  solved  for  him,  answered 
before  he  asked. 

199 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

He  would  go  back  to  his  mother!  He  felt  a 
sudden  longing  for  the  maternal  sympathy,  and 
in  return  it  was  as  if  his  mother's  yearning  arms 
were  around  him,  and  her  low  voice  murmured 
after  their  long  years  of  separation :  "  My  son ! 
my  son  ! " 

The  old  congenial  love  was  renewed  at  the 
thought,  and  when  his  eyes  fell  on  a  portfolio 
embroidered  for  him  by  those  loving  hands  — 
"  To  my  darling  "  —  he  smiled  once  again  at  the 
thought.  It  was  not  the  joyous  lover  smile  of 
the  previous  evening,  but  the  first  smile  of  his 
more  real  manhood ;  a  smile  at  once  tender, 
chivalrous,  yet  innately  strong. 

Later,  when  he  went  out,  Jameson  stood  on 
their  little  landing  waiting  for  him  to  approach. 
He  had  been  there  a  long  time.  He  had  heard 
Julian's  constant  moving  to  and  fro.  He  had 
heard  the  boy  turn  the  knob  of  his  door,  open 
it.  He  saw  Julian  appear  before  him,  and  then 
approach.  He  felt  proud  of  the  lad  with  whom 
he  was  angry.  He  felt  a  great  longing  to  shake 
his  hand.  The  boy's  step  was  not  gay  or  youth- 
ful, but  was  firm,  like  that  of  a  man  who  does  not 
stagger  and  yet  may  be  drunk. 

Julian's  face  was  clear,  even  sweet  in  its  expres- 
sion. It  did  not  bear  the  imprint  of  a  sleepless 
night,  nor  look  as  if  any  great  sorrow  had  swept 
across  it.  It  was  simply  not  like  himself.  Jame- 

200 


The  Morn 

son  tried  to  translate  all  into  an  emotion,  but 
failed. 

His  first  words  were  harmonious  to  the  change 
in  him  rather  than  to  the  impetuous  Julian  of 
yesterday.  "You  are  right,"  he  explained  to 
Jameson ;  "  I  have  been  a  blind  fool  all  along." 

"  Are  n't  you  coming  out  with  me,  Julian  ? " 
Jameson  asked. 

Julian  almost  made  a  move  to  do  so  ;  then  he 
remembered. 

"  Can't  you  see  that  life  is  rather  ended  for  me 
here,  Jameson  ?  There  is  nothing  for  me  here 
to-day." 

Jameson  stood  on  the  steps  just  below  him. 
He  tried  to  say,  "  Julian,  my  boy,  forgive  me ! " 
but  the  words  would  not  come.  Let  us  trust  we 
are  given  credit  for  such  unuttered  thoughts,  for 
he  seemed  to  feel  as  plainly  as  if  the  words  were 
written  on  the  face  before  him,  that  Julian  made 
this  response  to  him : 

"  I  could  not  be  angry  even  if  I  wanted  to. 
She  has  taught  me  to  believe  in  good." 

"  As  one  lamp  lights  another,  nor  grows  less, 
So  nobleness  enkindleth  nobleness." 

"  She  has  taught  me  to  believe  in  good."  It 
was  a  tiny  flame,  but  she  had  passed  it,  the  tiny 
flame  lighting  her  own  great  darkness,  and  lo  ! 
were  one  to  blow  at  it,  one  might  find  it  still 

201 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

burning  like  God's  own.  Poor  Pelleas !  Poor 
Julian  !  She  had  put  him  in  a  strange  position, 
for  God  may  forgive  the  weak  hand  raised  against 
Him ;  but  she  had  taught  him  merely  to  believe 
in  good.  This  is  to  have  no  sword. 

It  was  a  strange  parting  after  such  a  friendship 
and  after  so  many  years. 

Mrs.  O' Byrne  was  in  the  kitchen  later  when 
Mr.  Julian  appeared  to  her.  She  never  doubted 
but  that  all  was  quite  well  with  him,  he  was  so 
neatly  dressed,  his  effects  were  so  nicely  packed. 
He  said  he  was  going  back  to  his  mother,  that  he 
was  called  home  unexpectedly.  It  was  evidently 
not  sad  news,  as  he  exchanged  laughing  words 
with  them.  And  they  had  rallied  the  young  fel- 
low as  was  usual  (always  with  their  mind's  eye  on 
Ludwiga  and  the  probability  of  his  relation  to 
her).  They  said,  all  very  slyly,  that  it  was  just  as 
well  he  was  going  now,  as  after  this  there  would 
doubtless  be  two  of  him,  and  after  a  while  three  of 
him,  and  so  on  up  until  they  had  quite  a  decent- 
sized  little  family  surrounding  him,  and  it  would 
not  be  so  convenient  then  to  travel  !  and  they 
helped  all  this  humor  on  with  unmistakable 
winks,  as  was  customary  in  the  Terrace ;  while  he 
only  stood  and  smiled,  and  smiled,  as  if  it  were 
very  funny  —  which  indeed  it  was. 

Then  he  had  gone  in  to  see  Deborah  and  Lud- 
wiga and  Alfons,  and  had  told  them  the  same 

202 


The  Morn 

story,  and  Deborah  had  said  she  would  play  her 
farewell  to  him,  as  she  did  not  believe  in  saying 
good-bye  to  people.  This  the  strange  girl  did. 
Now  most  people  would  only  have  thought  of 
some  simple  thing  like  "  Auld  Lang  Syne,"  —  and 
indeed  it  would  have  been  very  effective,  —  but 
once  seated  at  the  piano,  Deborah  became  wrought 
by  a  musical  passion  that  seemed  to  extend  from 
the  time  when  her  first  ancestor  invaded  Ireland. 
She  played  on  and  on,  until  Julian  told  her  he 
would  miss  his  train,  and  then  he  discovered  she 
was  really  weeping,  so  fond  was  every  one  of  Julian. 

It  touched  him  very  much,  and  he  kissed  her, 
rallying  her  on  her  very  excellent  reasons  against 
conventional  leave-taking.  He  said  she  was  very 
simple  after  all,  just  a  dear  silly  girl  whom  he 
had  always  taken  for  a  geometrical  equation. 
She  was  his  sworn  friend  ever  afterward,  but 
someway  Alfons  was  displeased.  He  was  look- 
ing on.  Why?  Indeed  I  cannot  tell  you.  I  do 
not  think  he  knew  himself.  In  fact,  standing 
against  the  wall,  twirling  his  dark  moustaches, 
Alfons  was  just  enough  to  argue  out  his  unex- 
pected state  of  mind,  when  Julian  reached  half- 
laughingly  down  and  kissed  the  weeping  Deborah. 

It  was  not  at  Julian  that  Alfons  was  vexed. 
He  thought  Julian  a  very  fine  young  fellow.  He 
had  doubts  about  Julian's  correct  point  of  view 
in  connection  with  spending  the  splendid  fortune 

203 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

reputed  to  be  in  his  possession ;  but  that  was  not 
really  any  one's  but  Julian's  business.  Alfons 
would  have  given  a  more  central  pose  to  the 
fortune ;  but  that,  as  I  have  said,  is  an  entirely 
personal  arrangement.  Nor  was  it  at  Deborah 
that  Alfons's  vexation  was  directed.  He  realized 
that  there  was  a  charm  for  him  at  least  in  every 
phase  of  her,  and,  like  Julian,  he  rather  over-liked 
the  unexpected  womanliness  of  her  tears  ;  but  esti- 
mable as  each  was  separated,  Julian  and  Deborah 
linked  together  in  a  kiss  were  terribly  disturbing ! 
There  was  no  gainsaying  it. 

Julian  left  Deborah  still  playing,  Alfons  still 
fuming,  and  went  over  toward  the  window  to  bid 
Ludwiga  good-bye.  She  stood,  brave-mouthed, 
her  eyes  raised,  waiting  for  him.  She  did  not 
try  to  escape  the  ordeal,  as  Deborah  had  done, 
but  reached  both  strong  little  hands  toward  him. 

It  was  beautiful,  for  she  did  not  understand 
the  change  in  him,  but  said  words  which  were 
above  individual  prejudice.  "  Oh,  good-bye  ! 
God  bless  you,"  were  these. 

He  broke  a  bit  at  this,  and  said,  looking  down 
as  if  on  a  little  sister,  "  You  have  helped  me  to 
learn  more  than  any  one  else,  Ludwiga ;  "  and  she 
replied  at  once  in  her  characteristic  manner,  good- 
ness and  interrogation  commingled,  "  What  if  I 
should  ever  regret  helping  you  to  learn  it  all, 
Julian  dear  ? " 

204 


The  Morn 

Then  he  took  his  departure  on  the  train,  and 
when  the  dust  and  discomfort  were  not  too  dis- 
turbing, he  thought  of  Deborah's  wonderful  music, 
of  her  scope  and  maturity  of  expression,  how  tran- 
quillizing it  all  was ;  or  he  realized  that  familiar 
haunting  Florentine  smile  of  the  Italian  brother 
and  sister  through  a  certain  new  strength  in  his 
heart  which  came  from  accepting  individuals  as 
influences  merely. 

Later,  he  came  nearer  to  the  core  of  the  country, 
nearer  to  Nature,  for  having  heard  that  little  kin- 
dergarten song  of  the  blind  baby.  It  had  followed 
him  down  the  stairs,  to  the  stoop,  along  the  well- 
worn  planking.  It  was  the  last  thing  he  had 
heard  before  he  stepped  out  of  the  Terrace  for- 
ever, into  a  broad,  strange  life :  — 

"  How  green  arc  the  flowers, 
How  cool  is  the  wood, 
Our  Heavenly  Father 
How  kind  and  how  good." 

It  is  sweet  to  learn  wisdom  from  a  child. 


205 


XXIII 

IN   THE   ALPHABET   OF   LOVE 

JAMESON  went  home  that   same  evening, 
prepared   to   take  a  personal  hold   of  the 
wheel  of  Fortune  and  let  its  gifts  fall  into 
his  own  path. 

He  had  spent  a  long,  wearisome,  commercial 
day,  so  far  as  hand  was  placed,  so  far  as  eye  could 
judge.  He  had  sat  at  his  desk  in  the  office, 
writing  necessary  thoughts,  saying  necessary 
words.  To  all  appearances  it  had  been  much  as 
other  days  since  he  had  first  entered  the  great 
dark,  quiet  building,  with  its  silent,  powerful  out- 
put of  news  and  intelligence.  Yes,  superficially 
speaking,  it  was  a  usual  day  with  him,  perhaps 
more  than  ordinarily  busy  ;  but  that  was  the  outer 
man,  the  automaton  of  progress.  The  inner  self 
had  lived,  suffered,  labored,  at  a  wretched  tangle 
of  thought.  His  face  changed  toward  night  and 
looked  older.  He  had  lived  "  not  in  figures  on  a 
dial,"  but  consciously,  heart,  mind,  and  soul,  and 
out  of  it  all  he  wanted  the  girl  foi-  his  wife,  regard- 
less of  friend  or  misgiving.  He  loved  her,  and 
he  had  seen  her  love  for  him  in  her  eyes,  and 

206 


In  the  Alphabet  of  Love 

God  seemed  to  have  sanctified  the  great  black 
waste  of  doubt,  and  everything  else  was  as  naught 
save  their  need  of  each  other. 

He  saw  no  one  on  his  way  home.  It  was  July 
then,  but  almost  the  same  kind  of  an  evening  as 
the  one  on  which  he  had  first  met  Ludwiga. 
Darkness  was  longer  in  approaching,  that  was  all. 
He  felt  nothing  save  his  own  incompleteness. 
He  felt  as  if  the  only  satisfaction  attainable  in  life 
lay  in  making  Ludwiga  part  of  himself,  of  his 
past,  his  present,  his  future.  He  needed  her 
love,  her  eyes,  her  courage,  to  lift  him  out  of  his 
arid  past. 

He  loved  her,  he  said  to  himself.  She  was  his, 
not  Julian's.  It  did  not  matter  about  Julian,  in 
that  mood.  He  went  up  the  hill,  up  his  steps, 
and  hesitated.  Brown,  and  Brown's  brother-in- 
law  at  the  office,  all  the  rest  would  not  have 
recognized  him,  when  he  once  more  got  inside 
his  and  Julian's  own  landing.  It  was  the 
thought  of  the  little  quiet  house  that  did  it ;  this 
and  his  dreams.  He  felt  that  some  day  she 
would  stand  at  the  head  of  his  stairs,  with  glad 
eyes,  and  pure  lips,  and  a  welcome  for  him.  It 
was  a  holy  moment;  we  are  more  purified  for 
dreaming  of  it.  It  is  a  beautiful  mystery,  this 
union,  for  it  must  be  a  union,  "  One  near  one  is 
too  far." 

The  fact  that  Julian  was  not  there  disturbed 
207 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

the  poetry  of  his  humor.  He  went  down  and 
consulted  Mrs.  O'Byrne.  When  he  found  out 
the  truth  of  it,  he  hated  himself  for  having  be- 
trayed any  ignorance  of  Julian's  movements. 
He  left  them,  muttering  some  futile  words, 
directed  more  to  himself  than  to  them,  about 
having  known  that  Julian  had  intended  going, 
but  not  having  realized  that  it  was  so  soon. 

He  went  back  and  sat  down  at  his  desk,  just 
as  he  had  been  sitting  all  day.  He  was  not  a 
man  of  many  words,  and  just  in  that  tumult  and 
indecision  it  afforded  him  a  certain  self-hold  to 
place  himself  in  the  familiar  position.  He  sat 
there  a  long  time.  He  felt  that  outside  the  stars 
came  out,  visible  at  first  in  a  pale  evening  heaven, 
and  then  real  darkness  came,  and  the  pale  things 
were  like  gilt  spangles.  Then  as  the  city  lay 
silent  on  its  hills,  he  thought  of  a  home  again,  as 
he  had  thought  of  it  at  the  foot  of  their  stairs  on 
the  little  landing,  so  he  arose  abruptly  and  lit  a 
lamp.  He  wanted  to  be  sane,  logical,  consistent, 
just  to  Julian  before  himself. 

The  boy's  departure  had  upset  him  wonder- 
fully. It  was  strange,  it  seemed  an  accusation, 
and  should  they  ever  meet  again,  Jameson 
wanted  to  be  able  to  offer  Julian  his  hand,  and 
feel  that  it  would  be  accepted.  He  did  not  think 
of  the  girl  until  long  afterward.  It  was  a  man's 
affair,  and  he  did  not  realize  that  he  had  no  right 

208 


In  the  Alphabet  of  Love 

to  sacrifice  her  to  it.  He  did  not  think  of  her  at 
all  as  an  individual,  until  long  afterward. 

She  was  a  part  of  himself  during  the  sacrifice. 
Many  men  would  not  have  resisted  the  confes- 
sion of  that  thought.  They  would  have  gone  to 
her,  and  once  by  her  side,  the  old  story  would 
have  found  its  old  fairy-book  solution.  But 
Jameson  was  not  of  that  order.  He  said  to  him- 
self that  he  had  wronged  Julian,  wronged  his  own 
ideals  of  friendship  ;  he  had  been  carried  along  by 
a  succession  of  almost  irresistible  impulses  until 
he  found  himself  to-night  a  shadowy  Brutus  or 
lago,  but  with  still  the  chance  to  retrieve  his 
hand. 

He  was  very  sane,  very  logical  then.  He  was 
able  to  make  his  stand  through  a  double  argu- 
ment, for  and  against  himself,  as  she  had  known 
him.  He  said  he  could  not  marry  Ludwiga 
Strong.  He  said  he  could  do  without  love;  it 
was  only  a  tinsel  gimcrack,  which  men  will-o'-the- 
wisp  after,  thinking  it  a  great  guiding  star. 

He  could  not  marry  Ludwiga  because  of 
Julian's  opinion  of  it,  yet  once,  as  an  intermis- 
sion, he  thought,  "  What  if  Julian  were  dead," 
and  he  half  rose  to  his  feet  with  low  escaping 
words  of  endearment,  so  great  was  the  longing 
when  that  human  barrier  was  swept  away.  It 
was  Julian  living  of  whom  he  was  afraid.  He 
would  be  the  ghost  at  their  very  wedding  feast. 
M  209 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

They  could  never  be  very  happy.  This  Julian 
whom  he  had  robbed  and  wronged  would  stand 
day  and  night  mocking  their  happiness  until  it 
grew  unwelcome,  unenjoyable  to  them. 

He  had  never  had  a  home.  He  had  meant 
some  day  to  stand  in  a  sumptuous  hall,  and  step 
from  the  side  of  some  gracious  woman  and  bid 
Julian  welcome  to  his  board.  It  had  been  a 
pathetic  little  ambition  with  him,  with  which 
Julian  had  less  to  do  as  Julian  than  as  old  Joy's 
son,  son  to  his  benefactor. 

Julian  could  probably  never  enter  his  home  if 
he  married  Ludwiga.  If  he  died  —  the  thought 
of  it  sent  a  sick  rush  of  blood  to  Jameson's  heart. 
When  we  grow  too  old  for  a  mad  glow  of  guilt 
in  our  cheeks,  there  is  this  unhealthy  quickening 
at  the  heart  when  our  honor  is  questioned. 

It  was  in  this  way  that  Jameson  justified  his  giv- 
ing up  of  Ludwiga  Strong.  It  was  very  mascu- 
line, very  convincing,  but  entailed  a  sacrifice  other 
than  himself.  This  is  rather  masculine  also. 


210 


XXIV 
WHAT   THE   TERRACE   THOUGHT 

MRS.  O'BYRNE  told  the  two  young 
ladies  and  Mr.  Alfons  the  next  even- 
ing that  Mr.  Jameson  and  young  Mr. 
Julian  had  given  up  their  rooms ;  at  least,  Mr. 
Jameson  had  given  them  up  for  both  the  young 
men. 

She  did  not  quite  like  the  way  this  astounding 
intelligence  was  received  by  them.  Miss  Deborah 
gave  a  sweeping  little  look  toward  Miss  Ludwiga. 
Miss  Ludwiga  sat  staring  straight  ahead,  with  her 
eyes  rather  wide,  and  her  two  little  hands  clasped 
as  if  she  were  having  her  picture  taken,  while  Mr. 
Alfons  whistled.  Trust  Mr.  Alfons  to  gain  the 
proper  theatrical  effect  without  any  effort,  every 
time.  Mrs.  O' Byrne  did  not  understand  the 
young  ladies'  way  of  receiving  surprises ;  but 
Alfons's  whistle  was  a  popular  medium  of  ex- 
pression and  went  straight  to  her  heart.  She 
directed  her  conversation  to  him. 

"  It  is  the  most  ^comprehensible  thing,"  she 
said  to  Mr.  Alfons.  Now  Mrs.  O'Byrne  was 
noted  for  her  fine  way  of  speaking  and  her  choice 

211 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

of  words.  She  used  modestly  to  explain,  when 
complimented  on  it,  that  it  "just  came  natural  to 
her  "  ;  but  I  feel  that  one  could  not  live  ten  years 
near  Deborah  Murphy  without  saying  long  words 
half  correctly,  or  short  ones  merely  minus  a  few 
salient  letters  —  Deborah  was  so  powerful  a 
pedagogue- ess,  as  Alfons  said. 

Alfons  was  consistently  responsive. 

"  It  is  not  only  uncomprehensible,"  he  said, 
with  evident  admiration  for  the  word,  as  he  lin- 
gered on  it,  "but  it  is  ungrateful  also.  What 
did  they  say  ?  " 

Mrs.  O' Byrne  bristled.  "What  could  they 
say  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  If  I  were  going  away,"  replied  Mr.  Alfons, 
"  I  should  have  to  stay  a  whole  month's  rent 
extra  to  say  all  the  things  one  should  say  to  you, 
Mrs.  Mamma  O'Byrne." 

That  last  was  what  the  blind  baby  called  her 
and  completely  routed  her  cynicism. 

"You've  a  good  tongue,  hung  well  in  the 
middle.  Shure,  but  a  kind  word  hurts  nobody, 
even  if  you  don't  always  mean  it !  " 

Mr.  Alfons  sometimes  wore  smart  eyeglasses, 
and  he  placed  them  on  his  handsome  Greek 
feature  now.  He  looked  quizzically  at  Deborah 
as  he  did  so,  and  for  several  seconds  afterwards. 
It  was  an  impersonal  stare  to  every  one  except 
Deborah. 

212 


What  the  Terrace  Thought 

"  Deborah,  listen  to  this  fine  opinion  of  Mrs. 
O' Byrne,"  he  said,  while  that  dear  woman  stood 
by  delighted.  " c  Shure,  but  a  kind  word  hurts 
nobody,  even  if  you  don't  always  mean  it ! ' 

He  turned  again  gracefully  to  the  honest  Irish 
creature :  "  I  thought  Deborah  might  teach  it  in 
her  school/'  he  said,  and  then  went  on  kindly : 
"  Now  let  me  come  back  to  the  point  again. 
These  two  young  men,  it  appears,  came  to  your 
rooms  last  winter,  hired  these  apartments  from 
you ;  have  lived  here  in  evident  satisfaction  for 
nine  or  ten  months,  or  something  like  it,  and 
have  now  flitted,  to  be  romantic  (it  is  surely  a 
time  when  one  should  be  romantic),  without  a 
word  of  complaint  or  warning.  It  certainly  is 
uncomprehensible,  unless  we  are  willing  to  accept 
the  novelist's  explanation  for  all  masculine  action, 
that  ( the  yoong  men  noo-a-days,  the  're  poor, 
squashy  things ;  the'  looks  well  anoof,  but  the' 
woon't  wear,  the'  woon't  wear.' ' 

His  sister  unclasped  her  hands  and  smiled  at 
him,  —  the  quaint  strong  smile  which  had  ever 
glimmered  like  a  sunny  rainbow  over  every  hope- 
ful tendency  he  had. 

Mrs.  O' Byrne  was  far  more  literal.  "  It  is 
that,  it  is  that,"  she  approved. 

"  It  could  be  nothing  else,"  returned  Alfons, 
still  gravely,  —  indeed  so  gravely  that  it  charmed 
her.  "Jameson  and  Julian  looked  c  well  anoof,' 

213 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

we  will  allow  that.  They  certainly  wore  the 
right  things  at  the  right  times  and  otherwise 
conventionally  deceived  us,  but  they  themselves 
have  n't  worn,  Mrs.  O' Byrne,  and  I  wish  for  the 
sake  of  all  kind,  sympathetic  landladies  such  as 
you,  that  we  might  hang  a  placard  on  their  next 
door-knob,  reading,  '  These  young  men  are  un- 
comprehensible  and  look  well  anoof,  but  the* 


woon't  wear/ 


She  went  off  wondering  about  them.  Mr. 
Jameson  had  paid  two  months'  rent  in  advance, 
so  she  did  not  think  all  unkindly  of  him ;  but 
her  feelings  were  terribly  hurt.  If  she  had  not 
been  saving  up  for  a  blind  baby  (and  if  one  has 
to  be  a  blind  baby,  it  is  much  more  comfortable 
being  a  rich  blind  baby,  poor  little  chap),  she 
would  far  rather  Mr.  Jameson  and  Mr.  Julian 
had  left  owing  her  two  months'  rent  than  to  have 
been  disappointed  in  them. 

Indeed,  no  one  knew  what  to  make  of  their 
sudden  departure.  Mr.  Julian's  departure  had 
seemed  natural  enough,  —  just  a  visit  to  his 
mother,  —  until  they  knew  that  he  would  never 
come  back.  Then  when  you  add  to  this  Jame- 
son's strange  leave-taking,  there  seemed  a  sort 
of  mystery. 

Every  one  talked  about  it,  and  when  Alfons 
was  one  of  the  party,  he  entered  the  subject  read- 
ily, as  he  had  that  evening  with  Mrs.  Mamma. 

214 


What  the  Terrace  Thought 

Alfons's  interest  was  ever  that  of  a  man  with  a 
ready  tongue  and  a  great  deal  of  time.  He  did 
not  exactly  care  for  the  world,  but  there  was 
nothing  else  of  so  vital  an  interest,  considering 
that  he  was  on  the  planet  and  a  part  of  it. 

Mr.  O'Byrne  refused  to  look  at  the  matter 
from  a  negative  side.  He  was  a  stout,  kind  man, 
and  remained  stout  and  kind  by  reason  of  his 
practical  philosophy.  If  anybody  died,  Mr. 
O'Byrne  was  sorry  for  it;  if  anybody  recovered, 
Mr.  O'Byrne  was  glad  of  it;  but  he  never 
anticipated  either  emotion.  He  worked  on  the 
police  force  and  had  always  been  a  faithful  and 
reliable  officer,  but  was  not  considered  acutely 
brilliant  until  one  day  when  a  prisoner  had 
escaped  from  a  room  as  if  by  magic.  It  non- 
plussed every  one  and  caused  a  scurrying  and 
scattering  of  excited  deputies,  which  was  all  in 
vain,  until  O'Byrne  suggested  that  the  missing 
fellow  might  be  under  the  very  bench  upon 
which  they  had  all  been  sitting !  It  was  a  fine 
thought  of  him,  quoth  every  one,  and  he  said 
nothing  more  until  they  made  him  a  sergeant. 
And  I  've  no  doubt  but  some  fine  day  in  San 
Francisco  this  slow,  fat  snail  of  a  fellow  will  be 
the  Chief  of  Police ;  and  a  kind  Irish  face  will 
that  chief  possess,  all  success  to  him  ! 

While  "up  home,"  we  must  not  forget  this 
about  him ;  there  will  be  a  blind  brat  of  a  laddie, 

215 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

freckles  and  tow  hair  and  long  legs,  doubtless, 
who  will  strut  around  like  a  pretty  peacock 
because  of  these  new  honors  to  his  dad. 

And  while  O' Byrne  stands  before  Jameson's 
great  white  Goddess  (!'  suppose  it  is  the  same 
Goddess  who  bestows  laurel-wreaths,  epaulets, 
officers'  stars,  and  the  like)  I  doubt  not  but  that 
he  will  want  to  say  to  her :  — 

"  I  would  give  ye  back  the  arm-pieces  and  the 
honors  (sound  the  full  h  here,  dear  people)  if 
the  Laddie  could  see  the  star !  " 

But  this  is  digressing.  We  have  been  relating 
the  effect  of  Jameson's  and  Julian's  actions  on 
the  various  members  of  Terrace  social  life. 
Purposely,  perhaps,  Deborah  and  Ludwiga  have 
been  omitted. 

Indeed,  Deborah  took  the  course  these  young 
men  had  pursued  in  an  entirely  personal  manner. 
Unlike  Mr.  O'Byrne,  she  fitted  it  into  her  own 
experiences  as  carefully  as  an  artisan  would  dove- 
tail joints.  It  was  her  way  of  developing  through 
other  peoples*  lives.  She  had  a  very  limited  field 
of  her  own. 

"  What  did  Mr.  O'Byrne  say  about  your  late 
roomers  ?  "  she  asked  Mrs.  Mamma  one  morning. 

<c  Oh,  that  there  are  more  roomers/'  Mrs. 
Mamma  replied,  smiling.  She  was  not  smiling 
at  the  dear  man's  ideas,  but  over  the  joy  of  pos- 
sessing such  a  treasure. 

216 


What  the  Terrace  Thought 

Deborah  threw  out  her  hands.  "  If  I  were  a 
lodging-house  keeper/'  she  said,  "  I  'd  bar  men 
out  of  my  rooms  forever,  after  such  an  experi- 
ence with  them.  I  hate,  hate,  hate  men,  taking 
them  altogether.  They  are  like  little  children 
who  build  block  houses,  and  then  attack  their 
own  work.  So  it  is  with  our  belief  in  men's 
goodness.  They  no  sooner  erect  beautiful  tem- 
ples of  it  in  our  hearts  than  they  must  undermine 
their  own  precious  foundations." 

These  opinions  were  lost  on  Mrs.  O'Byrne, 
which  was  quite  as  well,  as  they  were  too  heretical 
for  an  honest  married  woman  to  entertain. 

To  tell  the  truth,  one  can  do  no  better  than  to 
end  this  chapter  of  doubt  and  darkness  by  quot- 
ing dear  ould  Casey's  never-failing  ultimatum.  He 
was  the  oracle  of  the  Terrace,  and  did  any  one  lose 
his  friend  or  his  necktie,  did  a  young  giddy  lady  fly 
out  of  a  burning  house,  taking  some  infinitesimally 
small  thing  (and  frivolous  also)  like  her  best  bronze 
Oxford  ties,  leaving  her  wits,  her  family,  and  her 
fortune,  why,  ould  Casey  must  sit  on  the  case, 
assisted  by  Gambrinus.  And  each  time  after  he 
had  drunk  beer  enough  to  make  all  heights  and 
depths  one  vast,  glad  plain  to  him,  the  dear  old  man 
would  say  his  mind,  as  I  reproduce  it  to  you  :  — 

"  Oh,  God  help  them  !  God  help  them  !  " 

It  was  a  nice  thing  to  say,  poor  ould  Casey,  and 
never  wholly  irrelevant. 

217 


XXV 

FRIENDS 

DEBORAH  sat  at  her  table, writing.  She 
was  in  her  own  room,  the  room  in  which 
she  had  dwelt  so  long  that  it  seemed  to 
participate  in  her  struggles  and  attainments,  and 
to  be  like  a  tried  companion ;  so  she  was  well 
content. 

Her  pen  was  a  source  of  great  comfort  to 
Deborah.  She  wrote  in  a  desultory  fashion. 
She  loved  to  reproduce  her  thoughts  on  paper, 
and  often  after  they  were  there,  she  obliterated 
some  and  improved  others,  just  as  women  prink 
before  a  mirror ;  only  this  was  more  psychological 
decoration. 

She  had  always  written  in  this  manner,  way 
back  in  the  "  dark  ages."  In  the  years  when 
she  was  a  freckled,  ragged  Irish  child,  uncon- 
genially  placed,  she  had  written  on  a  broken 
slate  with  a  short  scratching  pencil,  "  I  hate  the 
world!"  And  when  she  was  a  few  years  older, 
a  little  unnoticed  mortal  doing  tremendous 
things,  she  would  trace  words  on  her  steaming 
window,  so  as  to  remember  them  ;  words  which 

218 


Friends 

had  been  said  before  her,  and  which  she  wanted 
to  impress  on  her  recollection,  and  add  to  her 
vocabulary. 

Then  she  had  become  too  old  for  broken  slates, 
and  too  poor  for  pen  and  paper;  but  compared 
with  this  there  came  affluent  circumstances  later, 
as  I  have  said.  Then  she  did  not  have  to  re- 
gard the  price  of  stationery,  and  could  jot  down 
her  many  thoughts  without  that  bugbear,  econ- 
omy, to  restrain  them.  These  thoughts  were 
rarely  relevant  or  connected,  —  merely  ideas,  the- 
ories, comments,  words,  and  then  these  over  and 
over  until  they  were  quite  familiar. 

She  was  writing  now,  when  her  door  opened, 
and  in  walked  Ludwiga  and  Alfons.  They  often 
entered  without  knocking,  and  consistent  with 
this  friendliness,  their  entrance  seldom  disturbed 
their  hostess.  It  was  an  admirable  trait  in  Deb- 
orah. "  Your  hospitality,"  Alfons  once  said  to 
her,  "  is  equalled  only  by  one  woman,  surpassed 
by  none." 

They  had  been  quite  alone,  and  it  was  a  wrong 
time  to  pay  a  compliment  to  a  Bachelor  Woman, 
one  who  disliked  men  and  abhorred  any  union 
of  the  sexes.  Deborah  acted  as  if  she  had  not 
heard  him,  but  he  was  not  to  be  suppressed. 

"  This  was  she,"  he  continued  with  his  inim- 
itable manner,  "  who  passed  to  her  guest  that 
goblet  which  was  to  select  her  husband."  He 

219 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

stood  beside  her  chair,  looking  down  upon  her. 
There  was  nothing  personal  in  the  look,  in  his 
manner,  or  in  the  story,  —  merely  a  delicate  yet 
apparent  wonder  that  such  a  cordial  custom  had 
passed  out  of  use ;  but  it  was  one  of  the  days 
when  Deborah  could  not  take  his  folly,  just  as 
there  are  many  days  when  our  hands  refuse  to 
catch  a  ball. 

"  Why  do  you  tell  me  such  foolish  things  ?  " 
she  asked  abruptly.  "  They  are  so  uninteresting." 

He  still  stood  by  her  chair,  he  still  looked 
down  at  her,  he  still  retained  his  air  of  delicate 
yet  apparent  wonder. 

"  How  nearly  ungrateful  you  can  be,"  he  an- 
swered. "It  was  an  historical  allusion, especially 
produced  because  you  like  history  and  such  cereal 
subjects.  As  well  feed  you,  my  dear  Deborah, 
on  macaroons  and  ice-cream." 

She  sat  there  pale,  her  lip  set  firm  as  that  of 
an  old  Celtic  bog-trotter.  It  paid  him  to  tease 
her  when  this  strong  line  was  broken  by  a  little 
tremor,  as  if  she  would  rather  weep  than  laugh. 
Women  are  great  toys  in  their  humors  to  the 
ordinary  masculine  mind. 

This  evening,  Ludwiga  and  Alfons  entered 
Deborah's  apartment  as  usual.  As  I  before  men- 
tioned, it  was  a  characteristic  room.  She  had  long 
side  shelves  of  many  books  as  her  best  friends, 

220 


Friends 

her  favorite  authors  among  them,  put  off  in  a 
little  sacred  spot  by  themselves,  from  which  place 
they  were  recognizable  by  their  shabby  binding 
and  their  loosened  leaves.  She  was  a  very  tidy 
person,  but  she  had  loved  those  authors  since  she 
was  a  child,  and  she  would  not  have  wished  to 
improve  this  raiment.  j 

There  were  not  many  of  them,  but  Hugo's 
great  work  "  Les  Miserables "  was  there,  also 
the  quaint,  lonely  jotting  of  Elia,  some  early 
pamphlets  of  Stevenson,  all  the  morbid,  beauti- 
ful genius  of  Hawthorne,  and  many  more.  Plants 
were  all  of  these,  which  had  struggled  from  a 
dark  soil  out  toward  a  triumphant  light.  There 
had  sometime  been  cast  a  seed,  and  God  himself 
must  have  tended  it.  Perhaps  her  own  soul  had 
risen  from  the  rubbish  heap,  just  as  these  won- 
derful men  had  blossomed  through  misery,  pain, 
or  commonplace  surroundings  into  everlasting 
flowers. 

Alfons  assisted  his  sister  to  remove  her  wraps. 
The  girl  had  on  her  terra-cotta  gown,  and  as  she 
stood  before  them  both  an  instant,  she  looked 
like  the  flower-girl  of  Pompeii  clad  in  twentieth- 
century  clothing. 

She  possessed  the  same  simple,  foreign  grace 
which  suggested  the  short-lived  bloom  of  the 
tropical  people.  Her  eyes  were  pure,  wide,  very 
gentle,  but  they  were  not  the  eyes  of  a  normal  or 

221 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

alert  person.  They  represented  qualities,  not  a 
person.  They  were  the  eyes  of  a  woman  who 
could  see,  but  who  did  not  see  always. 

She  smiled  when  she  caught  Deborah  looking 
at  her.  "  The  smile  is  quite  the  same,"  Deborah 
thought.  It  was  the  smile  she  had  bestowed 
indiscriminately  on  faltering  men,  on  discouraged 
women,  on  little  children,  from  her  own  little 
stored-up  stock  of  sunshine.  Yet  the  girl  had 
changed,  Deborah  thought.  It  had  been  years 
since  Deborah  had  thought  of  Ludwiga's  age. 
It  is  a  test  if  we  do  not  think  of  age  or  looks  in 
friendship.  It  had  never  seemed  to  matter  to 
Deborah  if  Ludwiga  were  sixteen  or  sixty,  or  some 
intermediate  number  of  passing  years,  their  com- 
panionship was  so  satisfactory,  so  congenial ;  but 
now  Deborah  observed,  with  subtle  yearning, 
that  the  girl  was  still  young  enough  to  have 
grown  a  trifle,  and  to  have  gained  that  strange 
form  of  self-possession  which  is  proportionate 
to  additional  height 

It  had  aided  her  in  acquiring  poise  of  a  sudden, 
—  not  a  bodily  beauty  wholly,  but  rather  that 
stateliness  which  may  come  to  our  brows  after 
our  destinies  are  written  on  them,  according  to 
some  wise  sect. 

"  Good-evening,"  Alfons  said  briskly. 

Deborah's  eyes  followed  his  sister  until  she 
had  become  seated,  and  then  Deborah  looked 

222 


Friends 

up  at  him.  Once  looking  full  at  him,  one  often 
had  to  smile.  He  was  of  goodly  appearance, 
and  had  the  winsome  personality  that  sees  no 
reason  why  the  world  should  dislike  it. 

"Good-evening,"  Deborah  returned.  "What 
have  you  been  doing  this  evening?  You  both 
look  as  if  you  had  been  enjoying  a  walk." 

He  answered  it  in  a  characteristic  manner.  It 
was  a  trick  of  his,  before  saying  something  un- 
expected, to  deliberate  a  few  seconds.  A  listener 
learned  to  anticipate  the  humor,  but  never  the 
sentiment. 

"  I  do  not  know  whether  we  enjoyed  it,"  he 
answered  gravely,  "  and  it  was  not  a  walk.  In 
lieu  of  our  ancestral  mode  of  transportation,  we 
took  a  ride  in  the  street-car.  Ludwiga  did  not 
look  as  bright  as  a  dollar,  and  I  thought  the 
change  would  benefit  her."  He  glanced  humor- 
ously at  his  sister.  "  Ludwiga  had  a  fancy  that 
her  heart  felt  silent!  Imagine,  my  dear  Deb- 
orah, one's  heart !  It  is  enough  to  make  one 
doubt  the  very  fact  of  being  alive.  A  man  would 
have  been  sincere,  and  would  have  gone  at  once 
to  the  morgue  and  given  himself  up,  or  he  would 
have  taken  a  cocktail ;  but  women,  dear  women, 
can  outwit  both  nature  and  art  where  our  primal 
instincts  fail. 

"  We  took  a  Jackson  Street  line  to  the  beach,  my 
dear  Deborah.  We  rode  miles  without  speaking. 

223 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

It  was  too  early  in  the  evening  to  catch  the  crowd. 
At  first  the  conductor  probably  took  us  for  bride 
and  groom,  but  after  we  neared  the  curve  where 
one  sees  the  ocean,  even  his  interest  failed. 
There  was  not  the  slightest  atmosphere  of  ro- 
mance surrounding  us.  A  man  could  not  say 
c  How  sweet  the  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this 
bank  *  to  his  sister  !  It  is  good  living  near  the 
ocean.  I  am  sorry  for  the  people  who  live  inland 
and  have  to  call  a  silent  heart  indigestion,  and 
take  tablets  for  it.  Ludwiga  and  I  stood  on  the 
very  verge  of  the  cliff.  We  saw  the  great  dark 
Pacific  rolling  and  fuming  at  our  feet.  That  is  a 
beautiful  misnomer,  for  there  is  passion  enough 
in  the  soul  of  the  ocean,  in  the  very  deeps  of  its 
soul,  Deborah  !  Have  we  not  seen  it  lashing 
about  in  a  storm  ? 

"  There  was  a  strip  of  moonlight  that  lay  all 
across  it  like  a  path.  Even  I  wanted  to  walk, 
walk  toward  the  dark  horizon,  toward  the  stars, 
toward  forgetting.  I  knew  of  what  Ludwiga  was 
thinking,  —  that  God  spoke  to  her  through  it  all, 
that  one  little  human  life  seemed  unindividual, 
insignificant  before  the  vastness  and  majesty  of 
the  sea  ;  a  c  Build  thee  more  stately  mansions, 
O  my  soul '  was  the  sort  of  message ;  but  I  am 
not  the  reincarnation  of  a  tract." 

He  did  not  look  back  to  see  what  Ludwiga 
was  doing,  for  she  had  seated  herself  at  Deborah's 

224 


Friends 

piano  and  was  playing  some  little  song  of  Italy. 
It  was  a  quaint  contradiction  to  the  even,  conven- 
tional tones  of  the  young  man,  but  by  some  pretty 
quirk  of  feeling  it  emphasized  the  ardor  in  his 
eyes.  They  were  restless,  imperious,  irresistible 
with  manhood. 

"  I  suppose  as  you  stood  there,"  Deborah 
forced  her  lips  to  say,  "you  wished  another  woman 
had  stood  there  beside  you,  one  who  was  not 
your  sister,  —  the  last  woman  perhaps  at  whom 
you  had  chanced  to  glance." 

"  No,  a  woman  who  came  into  my  life  years 
ago,"  he  answered  gravely.  "  She  has  been  like 
the  sound  of  the  sea  in  a  shell.  I  do  not  need 
to  seek  the  ocean  for  it ;  I  carry  it  with  me 
forever." 

He  reached  over  and  lit  a  cigarette  from  her 
student's  lamp,  and  took  several  long  puffs  at 
it.  It  was  all  done  in  his  most  nonchalant 
manner,  then  he  leaned  over  her  table  once 
again. 

"Were  you  ever  in  love,  Miss  Deborah  Mur- 
phy ? "  he  asked,  sweetly  smiling.  He  had  not 
expected  an  earnest  answer,  and  when  it  came,  he 
did  not  know  if  it  were  earnest  or  not ;  so  does 
love  jest  with  us. 

"  Once,  years  ago,  I  happened  to  look  at  one 
man,"  she  said,  "and  there  has  never  been  any 
other." 

15  225 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  Was  it  before  we  met,  Miss  Deborah  Mur- 
phy?" 

"  Before  I  ever  spoke  to  you,"  Miss  Deborah 
answered  gravely.  He  went  out,  and  she  sat 
there.  She  thought  he  meant  Antonia,  and  in 
turn,  he  did  not  grasp  the  fact  that  before  she 
spoke  to  a  man  she  might  have  seen  him.  It  is 
delightful  from  a  fictional  standpoint,  but  seems 
rather  unnecessary.  Lovers  must  like  to  suffer  or 
they  would  make  a  little  effort  at  times  to  know 
facts. 

The  two  girls  were  left  alone.  Ludwiga  re- 
mained at  the  small  piano,  which  made  a  quaint 
framework  for  her,  as  she  sat,  a  pretty  bit  of 
Italian  color,  between  tall  brass  candlesticks. 
There  is  much  sombre  passion  in  Pompeian 
red,  backgrounded  by  ebony,  and  overtopped 
by  the  pale  flame  of  tall  Romish  candles.  Then 
the  small  hands  wandering  over  Deborah's  keys 
halted  all  at  once  as  Deborah  watched  them,  and 
remained  outspread.  The  attitude  was  singularly 
pathetic. 

"  Deborah,"  she  said,  her  face  still  turned 
aside. 

"What?"  asked  Deborah,  with  surprising 
alacrity. 

"  May  I  write  a  letter  at  your  desk  ?  I  have 
suddenly  remembered  that  I  owe  one  of  my 
friends  a  letter,  —  one  of  those  letters  it  has  been 

226 


Friends 

rather  hard  to  answer,  even  one  of  those  letters 
where  I  could  not  find  words  to  say,  and  did  I 
seem  to  find  them,  the  pen  would  not  or  could 


not  move." 


Ludwiga  had  risen  now,  and  had  come  and 
stood  in  the  spot  vacated  by  her  brother.  She 
was  not  as  tall  as  he  by  a  great  many  inches,  but 
there  was  more  than  a  family  resemblance  this 
one  evening.  They  looked  wonderfully  unlike 
every  one  else,  singularly  like  each  other.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  Deborah  had  seen  them 
both  under  the  equalizing  influence  of  one 
mood. 

Deborah's  eyes,  hungry  for  the  brother,  lin- 
gered over  the  pretty  light  in  the  eyes  before  her. 
She  felt  like  circling  around  and  around  the 
flame,  but  her  voice  was  as  usual  when  she 
spoke. 

She  sat  looking  up,  not  relinquishing  her  seat 
even  for  the  moment. 

"If  you  had  not  been  a  fool  you  would 
have  been  a  beauty,"  she  said  half-irritably  to 
Ludwiga. 

It  was  a  license  taken  by  her  love,  and  it  seldom 
affected  Ludwiga;  but  to-night  the  answering 
smile  on  her  lips  was  a  little  more  sensitive  than 
usual.  Her  generally  monotonous  voice  ran 
into  rapid  musical  words  too,  quite  as  rapid  and 
musical  as  Alfons's. 

227 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  Do  you  know  of  whom  I  have  been  thinking 
all  this  long,  long  evening  ?  "  she  said  to  Deborah 
with  an  appealing  simplicity,  it  was  so  sincere,  so 
direct,  so  unexpected.  ic  I  was  thinking  of 
Browning's  little  heroine  who  was  so  young  and 
who  had  no  mother —  is  n't  that  funny,  Deborah  ? 
I  have  not  had  many  real  live  people  to  think 
of  or  talk  to,  and  so  people  often  seem  very  real 
out  of  romance.  To-night,  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  I  actually  wished  that  my  mother  were 
living,  so  that  she  might  talk  to  me  and  listen 
to  some  silly  thoughts  that  I  felt  I  must  speak 
to  some  one.  The  reason  I  wished  for  her, 
Deborah  dear,  is  because  I  am  sure  my  folly 
would  not  bore  her  quite  as  much  as  it  might 
some  one  else.  To  read  about  a  mother's  love, 
Deborah,  is  to  feel  that  it  must  be  nearer  the 
divine  standard  than  anything  else  imaginable. 
c  To  hate  nothing  that  Thou  hast  made '  —  it  is 
so  exquisite  a  parenthood,  so  intuitive,  so  lenient, 
so  forgiving  !  To-night,  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life,  I  wanted  to  be  pretty  too ;  good,  noble 
perhaps,  but  pretty,  like  all  the  dream  women  — 
Guinevere  and  the  rest  of  them." 

She  stood  there,  abashed  by  her  own  confession 
the  very  second  it  had  passed  her  lips  ;  but  Deb- 
orah's critical  eyes  were  softer.  She  reached  out 
her  hand  and  touched  the  girl's  with  it. 

"  Let  me  try  to  answer  as  your  mother  might 
228 


Friends 

have,"  she  said.  "  Standing  there  you  are  not 
alone,  as  might  be  said  of  any  woman  who  is 
merely  beautiful  in  a  physical  sense.  You  are 
environed,  as  you  have  ever  been,  by  humble  and 
unlovely  surroundings.  It  is  sweet  to  see  a  flower 
in  a  tenement  window.  Perhaps  it  is  more  deli- 
cate, far  more  lovely  than  some  showy  rose  in  a 
rich  man's  garden  which  has  been  able  always  to 
raise  its  radiant  face  to  a  beautifying  sun.  You 
have  dwelt  too  long  in  the  shade,  my  dear,  a  shade 
dim  and  cool,  but  not  healthy,  otherwise  — 

"  Forgive  my  thoughtless  saying,  dearie,  that 
if  you  had  not  been  a  fool  you  would  have  been 
a  beauty ;  I  mean,  you  might  have  been  standing 
in  some  fine  salon  instead  of  here,  robed,  per- 
haps, in  more  artistic  garments,  without  those 
patient  lines  at  your  mouth,  without  that  strong 
hope  in  your  eyes,  without  that  sunshine  in  your 
smile."  She  reached  up  and  kissed  the  face  at 
her  words,  with  a  depth  of  love  not  usual  to  her. 
"It  was  not  a  very  womanly  speech,  dear,  with 
the  great  moral  searchlights  turned  on  it." 

"  I  think  I  could  write  my  letter  now,"  Lud- 
wiga  answered. 

She  slipped  into  Deborah's  vacated  chair  and 
drew  some  paper  toward  her.  The  action  was 
mechanical,  while  the  hand  that  moved  over  the 
surface  put  down  word  after  word  without  hesita- 
tion, but  not  recklessly. 

229 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

She  did  not  wish  any  mistakes  to  be  made,  and 
so  was  dictated  by  a  subconscious  precision  which 
was  far  more  powerful  than  impulse. 

She  had  never  written  a  love-letter  before,  and 
showed  the  'prentice  hand  throughout  it,  but  deep 
truth,  unchildlike  justice,  childlike  trust,  were 
there.  It  ran  :  — 

"  DEAR  MR.  JAMESON,  —  I  did  not  know  how  to  an- 
swer your  letter  before.  I  thought  I  should  have  to  ask 
Deborah.  I  thought  how  beautiful  it  is  to  possess  such 
a  love  as  this  strong,  good  love  which  Deborah  enter- 
tains for  me. 

"  I  felt  I  could  go  to  her  and  say :  '  The  thoughts  of 
my  life  and  its  issues  may  be  the  right  or  wrong,  the 
happiness  or  unhappiness  of  conscience  hang  in  even 
balance,  and  I  should  rather  you  touched  the  scales 
than  I.' 

"  Then  I  reread  your  letter,  and  I  felt  all  at  once  that 
Deborah  could  not  answer  what  you  said  to  me.  It 
must  be  my  own  life,  my  own  life  as  I  have  lived  it, 
which  is  to  act  back  upon  all  you  said  to  me.  The  de- 
cision produced  that  way  would  not  be  one  which  exter- 
nal thoughts  could  affect  or  alter.  It  would  be  our 
whole  lives  speaking  to  each  other,  rather  than  any  un- 
fledged emotions  or  any  merely  present  self. 

"  You  say  that  you  love  me,  that  you  loved  me  from 
that  first  happy  evening  in  our  little  parlor,  when  Alfons 
brought  you  in  during  Deborah's  music  and  introduced 
you  to  us  all.  You  say  that  you  recognized  me  that 
evening  as  the  good  woman  of  your  life.  Whatever 

230 


Friends 

paths  we  choose,  my  friend,  —  if  it  cannot  be  the  same 
one,  —  may  those  two  words  inspire  you  still,  for  I  shall 
try  to  deserve  them. 

"  It  was  like  you  to  have  recognized  the  gown  also  ! 
It  makes  me  think  that  perhaps  the  love  is  so  weak  and 
so  human  that  some  day  even  yet  I  may  be  your  happy, 
every -day  wife. 

"After  words  like  that  to  them,  few  women  could 
withhold  the  knowledge  that  they  loved  also,  if  it  were 
true.  These  words  come  out  of  silence  to  me  :  '  Given 
Self  to  find  God/  Back,  far  back,  it  must  somewhere 
be  written  that  we  are  given  love  to  find  Self. 

u  You  write  that  Julian's  heart  is  broken,  that  he  has 
gone  forth  into  the  great  world,  companionless  and  with- 
out illusion.  You  ask  me  if  you  and  I  could  enjoy  the 
happiness  that  belonged  by  rights  to  your  friend.  You 
ask  me  if  the  call  of  a  bird  for  its  mate  is  the  clearer 
note,  —  that,  or  man's  honor. 

"  I  do  not  know —  I  cannot  say  —  I  am  the  woman 
who  loves  you.  When  Julian  went  forth  disillusioned, 
he  left  us  together  in  the  world,  but  this  is  not  my  an- 
swer. It  is  sweeter  to  be  the  woman  you  love.  Will 
you  not  bear  my  standard  for  me  when  my  own  strength 
fails  it?  — will  you  not  be  sight  for  me  when  my  own 
eyes  fail  to  see  ?  So  this  is  my  woman's  answer  —  that 
I  am  yours." 

Below,  far  below  on  the  page,  she  had  com- 
menced to  write  some  farewell  message.  Maybe 
her  courage  had  failed,  for  faint,  as  if  traced  by 

231 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

some   onlooking  kindly  spirit  in  a  faint  Italian 
script,  was  this  :  — 

u  c  In  that  twilight,  so  beloved  of  Titian,  we  may  see 
the  colors  of  things  with  deeper  truth  than  in  the  most 
dazzling  sunshine.' 

"LuDWiGA  STRONG." 


232 


XXVI 
HIS   LIFE 

WHEN  Jameson  picked  up  his  life  again, 
it  was  with  the  cut  and  dried  feeling 
that  even  the  possibility  of  happiness 
was  out  of  his  reach  forever.     This  is  to  curtail  a 
great  deal  of  the  zest  of  living,  the  compensatory 
zest  of  mere  existence. 

He  felt  that  he  had  done  right  in  relinquishing 
Ludwiga,  but  he  was  not  always  sure  of  it.  He 
often  thought  of  quaint  characteristic  sentiments 
which  Deborah  had  occasionally  uttered.  He 
could  even  see  her  in  his  mind's  eye  standing 
once  again  in  the  dimly  lit  sun  attic,  her  face  and 
eyes  and  vast  wealth  of  plainly  piled  hair  all  one 
with  her  colorless  surroundings.  Alfons  would 
be  sunk  deep  in  one  of  those  unreadable  moods 
when  he  seemed  to  have  slipped  his  shell,  and 
was  a  searching  soul  athirst  for  information. 
Julian  would  be  laughing,  his  hair  thrown  back 
and  slightly  ruffled,  his  dark  face  fine  and  classic 
until  one  caught  the  spirit  of  the  buoyancy  be- 
neath it.  Then  one  felt  that  the  great  sculptor 
had  not  moulded  lastingly  yet. 

233 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

Ludwiga  would  be  listening,  interested  in  Deb- 
orah, or  in  Deborah's  views,  or  in  her  possession 
of  them ;  they  never  knew  which,  nor  had  they 
ever  questioned.  There  are  words  we  hear  and 
which  we  do  not  heed  at  the  time,  but  which  con- 
tain a  deep  meaning  for  us  later,  when  they  rep- 
resent light  which  has  shifted  until  it  falls  on  us. 

"  Birth  is  a  greatness  which  is  thrust  upon  us," 
Deborah  had  said.  "  Death  seems  an  unpleasant- 
ness to  be  endured  obediently  or  philosophically 
or  politely,  according  to  temperament ;  but  mar- 
riage is  the  one  gift  of  the  gods  to  us,  the  one 
great  card  left  in  our  hands  to  play,  —  but  we  often 
do  not  know  how  to  do  it.  We  blunder  when 
the  time  comes  for  us  to  pass  or  to  play.  Our 
hands  tremble,  and  all  the  pretty  plans  of  birth, 
all  the  possibilities  of  an  eternal  welding,  may  be 
upset.  Young  people  are  too  indeliberate  about 
marriage.  They  are  hasty  or  self-conscious  or 
emotional  in  their  relations  toward  the  subject. 
We  all  need  the  experience  of  marriage,  and  it  is 
those  lives  which  have  most  benefited  by  its  les- 
sons that  are  best  qualified  to  contribute  to  the 
great  purposeful  chain  of  the  world ;  strong  in 
lives  that  have  made  links,  links  that  have  joined 
great  civilizations,  wonderful  dynasties." 

Out  from  her  listeners  had  come,  as  ever,  but 
one  ready  voice.  It  belonged  to  the  man  who 
most  constantly  responded  to  her  with  his  ever- 

234 


His  Life 

ready  raillery.  The  eyes  looking  into  hers  were 
not  the  eager,  searching  ones  of  a  moment  previ- 
ous, but  the  sweet,  mocking  eyes  of  Alfons 
Strong  as  people  knew  him. 

"  Does  one  learn  all  this  by  living  single,  my 
dear  Deborah  ?  "  he  asked.  She  had  flashed  a 
sarcastic  glance  at  him. 

"  Yes,  by  living  single,"  Deborah  had  replied ; 
"  by  being  but  the  dweller  of  thresholds,  having 
a  welcome,  perhaps,  at  many  hearthstones,  but  a 
lengthy  dwelling-place  at  none  ;  by  having  friends 
live  and  die  around  one;  by  being  spared  surely 
this,  the  lonely  agony  of  Earth's  most  scalding 
bereavements,  —  but  by  missing  also  the  loving 
human  companionship." 

The  light  seemed  to  fail  around  her  as  she 
spoke.  The  evening  shades  made  no  attempt  at 
color  work.  Deborah  became  less  real  as  she 
stood  before  them  ;  her  face  grew  small,  her 
eyes  sad,  her  voice  sounded  very  bitter.  So  she 
might  become  in  the  days  which  were  before  her 
if  her  woman  love  were  not  nourished,  —  surely 
"  white  hair  crowned  with  thorns." 

Jameson  had  never  believed  in  love.  In  his  effort 
to  be  consistent,  he  remembered  his  old  opinions 
of  it  now.  He  had  held  that  love  was  a  sort  of 
development, —  merely  one  of  the  forces  that  are 
powerful  in  getting  us  into  the  final  mould.  He 
had  believed  Art,  Success,  Ambition,  were  a  fair 

235 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

sort  of  trinity,  and  that  marriage  was  an  unneces- 
sary graven  image. 

Hevwas  a  just  man,  and  tried  to  renew  all  these 
thoughts  now,  and  live  according  to  them.  The 
only  folly  he  committed  was  in  thinking  that  he 
was  the  same  person  who  had  originated  them. 
He  was  not.  He  was  different ;  and  in  thinking 
there  was  no  change  in  himself  or  his  opinions, 
he  made  the  first  mistake  in  a  chain  of  many 
others,  —  for  life  becomes  a  consequence  of  our 
right  or  wrong  acts. 

Thus  Jameson  rode  on,  as  had  King  Arthur, 
and  "  pitched  his  tents  beside  the  forest  "  just 
as  he  might  have  done  previously. 

In  every-day  language  he  went  to  and  from  his 
office.  There  were  times,  it  is  true,  when  the 
light  from  Guinevere's  eyes  was  confusing,  but 
he  laid  the  weakness  to  mood,  and  did  not  allow 
it  to  produce  any  irregularity  in  his  habits  or  his 
existence. 

Without  any  special  effort,  he  felt  a  strange 
need  for  her,  unexpectedly,  —  not  so  much  for 
herself  as  he  had  left  her,  but  for  the  woman  that 
he  had  expected  to  find  in  her  continually  ;  the 
congenial  sharer  of  his  household,  the  person  he 
most  cared  to  see  at  table ;  in  time,  maybe,  the 
noble  mother  of  some  little  children  who  would 
look  more  to  him  for  strength  and  kindness  than 
to  any  one  else  in  the  whole  wide  world. 

236 


His  Life 

It  took  his  whole  strength  to  be  true  to  Julian 
then,  —  the  Julian  for  whom  he  was  sacrificing 
love ;  the  Julian  who  was  supposed  to  be  heart- 
broken. 

He  did  not  labor  as  men  do  for  a  home  or 
woman,  even  for  the  idle  pleasure  of  buying 
her  an  expensive  gown.  There  was  not  the  joy 
in  it.  He  flung  that  single-handed  glory  of  celi- 
bacy, which  had  been  an  Eastern  Star  to  them, 
into  the  attempt  to  succeed. 

In  time,  there  came  a  return  to  him.  He 
got  a  well-earned  and  complimentary  promotion. 
Then  a  man  who  stood  before  him  died,  and 
in  looking  around  for  a  successor,  courtesy  sug- 
gested Brown's  brother-in-law,  because  of  his 
seniority  on  the  journal ;  but  the  management 
laid  its  finger  on  Jameson.  When  they  received 
his  answer,  it  was  an  acceptance,  characteristically 
polite.  The  long-shut  door  of  the  temple  had 
opened.  He  wished  that  Ludwiga  stood  by  his 
side  to  note  the  marvel  ;  he  wished  that  he  had 
not  to  pass  by  his  best  friend,  Brown's  brother- 
in-law,  for  this  kindly  man  had  never  failed  to 
encourage  the  tall,  awkward  fellow  from  whom 
the  victorious  Jameson  had  evolved.  But  this 
is  ambition,  and  he  entered  the  temple  alone. 

It  did  not  seem  to  harm  the  sacredness  of 
his  attitude  toward  Ludwiga  when  he  called 

237 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

on  Antonia  occasionally.  She  was  a  keen  re- 
storative at  first  to  him,  —  intuitive,  brilliant, 
feminine. 

He  even  forgot  Ludwiga's  personality  a  trifle, 
under  this  influence,  failed  to  feel  the  strong  im- 
pression formerly  made  by  the  mere  recollections 
of  her  daily  life.  She  became  a  part  of  the 
change  in  him,  rather  than  a  woman.  He  even 
felt  that  in  time  he  could  accept  Antonia  as  a 
fixture  in  his  existence.  She  was  handsome,  rich, 
and  entertaining.  She  had  learned  a  great  deaL 
She  could  adorn  a  salon  with  the  grace  of  an 
empress,  and  carry  from  it  all  the  pretty  charla- 
tan wit  which  is  like  champagne  from  a  dainty 
glass  to  a  man's  jaded  and  perverted  senses.  He 
might  have  married  her  in  those  times,  but  love 
was  looking  out  for  its  own,  and  he  did  not 
do  so. 

The  turning-point  came  unexpectedly  to  him. 
He  had  gone  to  call  on  Antonia  one  night,  and 
found  her  rooms  filled  as  usual  with  a  brilliant 
and  versatile  set  of  men.  Some  of  them  were 
good  men,  who  were  merely  indulging  in  the 
experiment  of  a  transgression  from  conventional- 
ity ;  some  of  them  were  club-men,  experienced 
Bohemians  ;  a  few  of  them  were  youths. 

This  fact  came  with  the  old  force  to  Jameson. 
He  remembered  Julian,  and  he  nearly  choked. 
It  was  a  terrible  reaction  with  him,  to  find  him- 

238 


His  Life 

self  so  much  outwardly  unlike  the  old  Jameson, 
and  yet  inwardly  the  same  man,  with  the  old 
surge  of  morals  and  emotions.  He  knew  the 
opinion  they  all  had  of  him ;  that  he  had  a 
place  amongst  them,  and  they  trusted  him  to 
mount  still  higher,  to  turn  his  finesse  to  his  own 
advantage.  He  was  a  connoisseur  of  opportuni- 
ties, they  said,  a  man  rid  of  folly  in  conscience 
and  of  all  the  other  impediments  of  the  journey 
of  youth,  and  he  had  come  to  believe  it  of  him- 
self; but  in  one  little  flash  from  Fate,  he  was  the 
old  Jameson,  the  man  who  was  born  "  a  good 
radical,"  as  young  Julian  had  been  wont  to  say 
of  him  when  he  sat  after  some  vapid  social  even- 
ing in  shirt-sleeves  and  with  fine,  frank,  boy- 
worship. 

It  was  as  if  facts  were  tossed  up  from  the  seat 
of  Truth,  facts  which  were  incapable  of  suppres- 
sion, eternal  in  their  significance.  Jameson  saw 
the  youths  who  were  fair  and  full  of  promise,  as 
Julian  had  once  been,  raise  the  wine  to  their  lips. 
He  felt  a  strange  throbbing  fatherhood  about  it; 
and  then,  as  in  a  dream,  the  rich  room  and  his 
rare  surroundings  faded,  and  in  their  place  was 
a  girl  with  pure  eyes  and  a  slim,  quiet  figure, 
saying  over  and  over :  "  Don't,  Alfons  —  look 
not  upon  the  wine  when  it  is  red." 

Then  he  got  up  and  left  Antonia's  house. 
When  he  did  not  return  she  waited  for  him ;  but 

239 


The  Siege  of  Yoitth 

he  never  did  return.     He  plunged  into  his  work 
instead,  laboring  as  men  seldom  labor. 

One  day  he  heard  indirectly  that  Antonia  had 
departed  for  Europe.  It  represented  nothing  to 
him  for  a  time;  then  he  recognized  Europe  as 
the  great  void  into  which  Julian  had  stepped, 
after  he  was  disillusioned.  Mrs.  Joy  had  written 
this  fact. 


240 


XXVII 
FATUM 

JULIAN  had  gone  to  Europe,  and  had 
taken  his  mother  with  him.  The  thought 
of  her  did  not  bore  him  as  it  might  have 
done  even  the  most  dutiful  son  who  was  experi- 
encing an  awakening.  An  awakening  of  self 
does  not  always  produce  selfishness. 

Julian  had  left  the  Terrace  without  any  of  the 
keen  torture  that  seems  rather  expected  from  a 
broken  heart.  He  did  not  dwell  much  on  the 
details  of  the  past,  but  when  he  did,  he  realized 
that  the  last  night,  spent  alone,  had  been  one  of 
keen,  transforming  suffering.  He  had  gone  over 
his  whole  past  with  Ludwiga ;  he  had  again  real- 
ized in  her  all  the  quaint  and  refreshing  sweetness, 
all  the  rare  humanity  that  he  had  needed  just 
then  from  some  woman.  He  had  awakened  from 
what  he  called  his  own  blind  egotism  to  find  that 
Jameson  had  cut  him  out,  to  use  homely  language, 
while  he  was  looking  on,  and  of  course  it  hurt 
his  pride ;  but  I  cannot  say  that  his  heart  was 
broken. 

It  is  true  that  there  are  times  when  we  can 
endure  such  great  crises  and  seem  oblivious  of 
is  241 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

the  sharp  pain.  Nature  seems  to  provide  a  kind 
anaesthetic  of  her  own  for  such  occasions.  After 
that  night  Julian  could  never  look  at  a  certain 
calm  ideal  of  St.  Joseph  without  becoming  sud- 
denly sick  —  sharply  and  unexplainably  sick.  He 
never  knew  that  it  was  because  of  Mrs.  O'Byrne's 
chandelier,  and  the  hours  he  had  spent  looking  at 
it  from  one  dark  to  dawn. 

He  thought  it  was  just  an  artistic  difference  of 
conception  to  which  he  was  supersensitive.  He 
did  not  waste  much  of  his  after  life  on  analysis, 
but  when  he  wondered  much  about  the  effect 
produced  upon  him  by  St.  Joseph  he  disposed 
of  it  by  thinking  simply,  "  I  will  do  a  better  one 
some  day."  You  see  life  had  for  him  become  full 
of  genuine  twentieth-century  purpose. 

No,  assuredly  his  heart  was  not  broken,  as  we 
have  understood  the  symptoms.  Even  as  early 
as  his  ride  toward  town  in  the  street-cars,  his 
thoughts  were  not  constantly  of  Ludwiga,  nor 
yet  hate,  nor  love,  nor  Jameson.  They  were 
as  casual  as  those  of  any  other  passenger,  I 
fancy. 

He  thought  of  the  route  he  was  to  take,  of 
how  his  mother  would  be  surprised  to  see  him  ; 
and  of  course  he  thought  of  Deborah  and  her 
music,  and  occasionally  of  his  trunk  checks,  and 
whether  he  would  have  time  to  see  to  them.  It 
seemed  natural  for  his  mind  to  be  running  on 

242 


Fatum 

in  that  way.  After  he  stepped  onto  the  ferry- 
boat, which  was  the  first  real  portion  of  his 
journey,  it  is  true  that  he  became  more  con- 
scious of  his  departure,  as  an  act  that  had  a 
certain  earnest  interest  to  him.  He  felt  that  he 
loved  San  Francisco,  and  he  went  and  stood  in 
the  stern  of  the  boat,  looking  back  at  the  thickly 
settled  city  that  lay  tier-like  on  its  many  hills. 
Assuredly  he  loved  San  Francisco.  Almost 
every  one  does  who  was  born  in  California,  and 
has  lived  in  the  metropolis  since  it  was  a  little 
child,  with  certain  ambitious  toy  houses  scattered 
over  some  drifting  sandhills. 

As  the  strip  of  blue  bay  grew  wider  between 
them,  he  said  between  his  teeth  :  "  Why,  I  went 
to  you  when  you  were  a  little  city,  not  big  or 
great  at  ail,  and  it  was  only  ten  years  ago. 
Now  you  look  like  a  person  who  has  found 
his  manhood,  and  dares  to  aim  at  being  great. 
Oh,  I  am  proud  of  you  !  I  hope  I  shall  come 
home  again  ! " 

He  had  never  quite  lost  that  homely,  tender 
little  scrap  of  ambition;  but  unheeded  for  years 
was  the  thought  that  California  was  home,  and 
that  when  he  had  made  a  name,  he  wanted  to 
bring  the  little  offering  back  and  lay  it  at  the 
feet  of  the  pretty  city  in  which  he  had  learned 
to  be  a  man.  It  was  as  if  she  were  the  fair, 
state-like  woman  drawn  to  personify  the  city, 

243 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

and  he  wanted  to  add  to  the  growing  offerings 
tendered  by  her  devoted  sons. 

When  he  was  on  the  train  speeding  along 
toward  Sacramento,  on  the  Port  Costa  flats,  he 
became  terribly  homesick  for  the  dear  old  place 
he  was  leaving,  for  all  their  good  Bohemian 
times  together  ;  even  for  the  flat,  flat,  homely 
country  over  which  the  train  was  passing.  It 
was  toward  evening,  and  the  sun  was  going 
down  red,  over  some  swampy  water.  It  burned 
hot  and  unlovely  into  every  fibre  of  him.  It 
was  anything  but  a  picturesque  scene,  but  it 
represented  the  whole  land  that  he  was  leaving, 
and  he  was  its  son  ! 

When  he  opened  his  eyes,  it  was  dark  with- 
out and  around  him,  save  for  the  train  lamps 
overhead.  He  was  a  calmer  person,  only  his 
throat  was  rather  sore  over  the  change  in  him. 
He  had  resisted  an  inclination  to  cry. 

This  awakening  made  a  cosmopolitan  of  Julian, 
one  whose  heart  would  have  responded  to  any 
emergency  call  from  his  country,  and  responded 
tenderly  and  with  quickened  blood,  but  one  capa- 
ble of  living  contentedly  anywhere.  In  this 
mood,  he  travelled  later  into  that  great  strange 
land  where  antiquity  and  art  and  mere  association 
hold  careful  chisels  for  a  chosen  few. 

He  seemed  changed  to  his  mother,  —  older, 
more  alert,  more  practical;  but  she  did  not  note 

244 


Fatum 

it  greatly.  He  was  her  dear  son,  she  said,  and 
would  sometime  become  a  great  artist. 

They  crossed  the  ocean  together,  and  stayed 
in  Paris  a  long,  long  time.  At  first  his  mother 
thought  he  had  gone  there  to  perfect  himself  in 
pen-and-ink  work,  but  one  day  he  said  to  her, 
"  Don't  you  know  that  I  am  facing  something 
broader  ?  "  Pen-and-ink  work  was  all  very  well 
for  a  training,  but  he  was  glad  that  he  had  gradu- 
ated from  it. 

Mrs.  Joy  suffered  a  great  deal  while  Julian 
kept  her  in  Paris;  but  she  would  not  have  let 
him  know  this  for  the  world.  There  were  no 
people  like  herself  near  her.  People  there 
seemed  very  unlike  her  old  neighbors,  who  had 
been  wont  to  run  in  and  talk  over  preserves  with 
her ;  although  these  same  neighbors  were  all 
comfortably  off,  and  could  have  trusted  their 
"jell  "  to  servants. 

The  poor  lady  suffered  in  this  peculiar  house- 
wifely fashion.  It  was  quite  pathetic.  In  fact, 
it  is  very  pathetic  to  be  so  alone,  and  to  want 
to  talk  about  pans  and  new  kinds  of  soap  with 
a  pale,  ecstatic  young  person  who  is  worshipping 
dead  goddesses.  She  was  wont  to  sit  in  a  lonely 
room  with  a  great  many  American  periodicals 
around  her,  but  they  were  not  very  satisfactory. 
She  had  tried  to  read  them  at  first  only  to  dis- 
cover that  they  were  unfamiliar,  quite  as  much 

245 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

so  as  Russian  or  Hindostanee  papers  would  be 
to  her.  It  is  really  almost  a  desperate  point  that 
has  been  reached  by  an  exile  when  his  home 
papers  seem  to  be  denationalized. 

Mrs.  Joy  took  a  patient  interest  in  Julian's 
work  at  first.  She  did  not  understand  it  in  its 
rudimentary  state,  but  she  took  an  interest  in  it, 
notwithstanding,  just  as  mothers  do  in  their 
daughters'  mastering  tedious  scales  on  the  piano. 
She  felt  that  she  wanted  to  keep  in  touch  with 
him. 

To  her  regret,  just  as  they  were  becoming  at 
home  in  Paris,  he  carried  her  away  to  Italy. 
There  Julian  became  stimulated  to  work  as  he 
had  never  been  stimulated  before.  All  the 
beauty  by  which  he  was  surrounded  seemed  to 
arouse  his  own  latent  powers.  He  did  not  fall 
abashed  on  his  face  before  the  great  works  of  the 
masters,  but  he  went  here  and  there,  seeing  and 
absorbing  color  and  form.  After  weeks  of  this 
eager,  intense  life  he  paused  as  if  to  take  a  deep 
breath,  and  then  he  took  up  his  life's  work  with 
a  new  ardor. 

A  sjrt  of  fever  seemed  to  possess  him.  He 
was  swept  up  by  the  spirit  of  art-competition. 
He  painted  things  that  he  had  never  imagined 
himself  capable  of  conceiving,  and  when  he  dis- 
covered his  own  possibilities  he  became  intoxi- 

246 


Fatum 

cated  by  them,  and  his  self-opinion  grew  more 
secure,  his  fancy  more  variously  colored,  his 
hand  more  skilled,  and  his  sight  more  inspired. 

He  drew  women  most  wonderfully,  his  mother 
thought.  She  was  watching  him  with  the  same 
careful  patience,  a  little  more  educated,  perhaps. 
No  one  ever  seemed  so  to  understand  women. 
She  was  too  dear  and  simple  a  woman  to  marvel 
over  it,  it  all  seemed  in  the  complement  of  genius 
to  her  trusting  mother  love. 

Then  she  began  to  notice  the  kind  of  woman 
he  portrayed  best,  and  it  was  never  the  really 
good,  limited  type  of  creature  with  whom  she 
was  most  familiar,  but  a  type  of  woman  who 
might  become  domestic  if  life  were  to  carry  out 
the  young  artist's  intention.  He  drew  women 
who  looked  like  Magdalens  with  a  Saviour's  smile 
working  on  them.  He  drew  women,  and  women, 
and  women,  and  then  one  day  he  drew  a  pair 
of  arms  that  made  him  famous.  There  was  a 
woman  back  of  them,  of  course,  a  woman  with 
subtle,  wonderful  physical  grace,  and  when  they 
asked  him  who  she  was,  that  they  might  hang 
the  picture  in  a  conventional  fashion,  he  wrote 
these  words  mechanically,  "  Suada,  the  Goddess 
of  Persuasion." 

They  hardly  represented  anything  of  moment 
to  him  until  long  afterward,  —  "  Suada,  the  God- 
dess of  Persuasion !  "  and  after  the  world  went 

247 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

wild  about  her,  he  began  to  worship  her  himself. 

She  was  at  first  a  leading,  wonderful  feminine 
thing,  with  a  human  message  that  the  people  did 
not  understand ;  but  he  grew  to  know  her  better, 
just  as  one  does  the  woman  he  loves.  After  a 
while  he  began  to  wish  that  she  were  human. 

The  end  of  it  was,  that  one  day  Antonia  walked 
into  the  Louvre  and  found  herself  exalted.  She 
had  been  reproduced  by  some  devot'e  and  hung 
in  a  splendid  frame  with  a  good  light  on  her. 
There  was  a  strange  undercurrent  to  the  subject 
that  affected  her  spiritually.  She  looked,  and 
became  a  better  woman.  It  was  by  some  one 
who  loved  her,  she  felt,  and  she  looked  for  the 
name  of  the  artist.  No  one  had  ever  loved  her 
sincerely  before. 

She  found  Julian  the  next  day  in  a  splendidly 
handsome  studio.  He  was  a  young  man  with 
the  flesh  and  poise  of  years  on  him.  He  had  a 
Van  Dyke  beard,  and  started  when  she  appeared 
before  him. 

"  So  you  are  the  little  artist !  "  she  said. 

They  spent  a  happy  season  or  two  near  each 
other.  One  day  on  the  Isle  of  Capri,  they  found 
a  resemblance  in  it.  It  was  like  Sausalito,  they 
said,  and  reminded  them  of  a  day  they  had  spent 
together  when  Jameson  lay  under  a  Sunday 
paper  and  Antonia  had  thought  him,  Julian, 
merely  a  pretty,  tiresome,  lovable  boy.  Sausalito 

248 


Fatum 

is  a  suburb  of  San  Francisco,  too  far  away  from 
Capri  to  betray  this  thought. 

It  was  a  pretty  scene  when  he  introduced 
Antonia  to  Mrs.  Joy  as  a  daughter. 

"  You  are  very  welcome,  dear,"  she  said ; 
"Julian  must  have  always  loved  you,  or  he 
could  not  have  painted  women  as  he  did." 


249 


XXVIII 
HOME 

FIVE  years  of  conscious  living  may  mean  a 
great  deal  to  one  existence ;  but  again, 
there  are  five  or  ten  years,  or  even  twenty, 
in  another  person's  life  that  hold  not  even  one 
light  to  illumine  their  monotony.  Much  time 
passes  simply  like  a  rather  dreary  watch  in  the 
night.  To  Julian,  each  day,  almost  each  mo- 
ment, had  been  a  telling  one.  A  change  had 
been  the  tide  with  him  which  led  on  to  fortune, 
and  it  was  in  a  wonderfully  grateful  frame  of 
mind  that  he  realized  one  day  in  Athens  that  he 
wanted  to  return  to  California.  He  had  been 
inhaling  the  atmosphere  of  Athens  as  if  there 
might  still  linger  inspiration  from  some  nectar 
spilt  centuries  agone  by  the  gods,  when  he  was 
seized  by  an  impulse  which  he  communicated  to 
Antonia.  They  were  in  the  very  centre  of  a 
beautiful  decaying  temple. 

"  I  want  to  go  home,"  he  broke  out.  "  I  am 
tired  of  dead  art  that  is  being  restored  and  made 
to  smile  again  by  so  many  beauty  doctors." 

250 


Home 

"  Oh,  you  have  done  so  well,"  she  cried. 
"  You  are  the  centre  of  professional  hope  just 
now.  Even  I  am  enjoying  professional  antici- 
pation with  the  world  about  you.  Should  we  go 
home  just  yet  ?  " 

"Yes,"  he  answered.  "I  am  coming  back 
after  a  while,  but  I  need  the  change  of  mental 
climate  or  I  won't  be  able  to  produce  anything 
but  a  fairly  well-featured  mummy." 

He  stood  looking  at  her  critically.  "  She 
would  have  to  be  a  well-featured  mummy,  An- 
tonia,"  he  said.  "  She  could  n't  be  anything  but 
well-featured,  after  you,  after  c  Suada.'  I  don't 
know  why  I  was  a  fool  so  long,  but  I  used  to 
draw  and  draw  and  draw  women,  sometimes 
just  one  woman,  but  it  never  amounted  to  any- 
thing. I  did  not  understand  at  first,  not  for 
a  long  time,  Antonia.  And  then  one  day  in 
Paris  I  remembered  how  I  used  to  say,  when 
a  young  boy,  that  I  would  draw  a  woman  some 
day  who  would  surpass  that  armless  silent  Milo 
queen,  who  has  borne  the  standard  so  long,  so 
long ! " 

He  showed  a  restlessness  and  a  passion  that  he 
had  not  displayed  for  five  years.  "  It  is  God 
who  must  first  make  the  perfect  woman.  You 
see  I  had  erred  all  along  in  trying  to  reproduce 
my  own  ideals,  my  own  ideals  of  her.  They 
were  mostly  qualities,  personified  in  some  Ma- 

251 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

donna-faced  girl  with  too  full  eyes  or  a  bad  figure 
or  inartistic  lines.  After  awakening  to  the  weak 
places,  it  was  splendid  fun  getting  readjusted. 
I  had  put  my  own  finger  on  the  very  thought 
that  simplified  the  whole  matter.  I  did  not 
desert  my  old  methods,  not  at  all,  only  I  com- 
menced again  at  the  very  lowest  rung  of  the  lad- 
der. Now  it  was  Nature,  not  the  mere  physical 
study  other  fellows  were  making  of  it ;  I  aimed  at 
a  rival  for  the  Milo  goddess,  even  if  I  had  to  do 
her  in  part,  and  it  should  take  me  a  lifetime  to 
recreate  the  whole  woman.  After  a  long,  long 
time,"  he  said,  "  I  had  drawn  a  pair  of  arms 
that  the  fellows  used  to  sit  and  look  at,  and  — 
then  —  I  filled  in  You.  That  is  all,"  he  added 
simply.  "  Fame  is  n't  such  a  wonderful  thing, 
after  all, — just  learning  what  to  do,  doing  it 
without  any  special  effort,  and  finding  one's  self 
with  the  possibility  of  a  good  deal  more  to  do 
in  life." 

She  tucked  her  hand  into  his  arm  and  said  with 
a  motherly  note  in  her  voice,  "You  must  go 
back  to  California,  Julian  !  " 

They  walked  along  arm  in  arm.  People  might 
have  said  as  they  passed,  "It  is  Joy  and  his  wife, 
Joy  the  American  artist  of  the  Louvre,  you  know. 
They  are  the  most  entertaining  people,  and  rather 
social  hits  outside  the  inevitable  lionizing.  Every 
one  likes  Joy  and  his  wife.  They  are  as  com- 

252 


Home 

posing  to  shattered  nerves  as  the  even  balance  of 
a  pair  of  scales." 

So  Joy  went  back  to  California,  back  to  San 
Francisco.  Jameson  was  sitting  at  his  desk  one 
day,  when  he  looked  up  as  if  he  had  missed  some- 
thing which  he  should  have  heard,  and  was 
vaguely  conscious  of  it,  —  an  old  failing  of  his. 

"  What  did  you  say,  Brown  ? "  he  asked. 
"  Whom  did  you  say  is  coming  back  to  Cali- 
fornia ? " 

"  Why,  Joy,  —  Joy  who  used  to  work  here," 
Brown  returned. 

Silence  fell  again  between  them.  Jameson  did 
not  go  back  to  his  writing.  Brown  sat  at  his 
papers  busily.  Brown  was  the  optimist  who  had 
married  when  he  was  nothing  more  than  an  office 
boy.  His  wife  and  he  could  not  have  had  more 
than  a  crust  of  bread  and  much  love  between 
them,  but  it  had  seemed  to  suffice.  Afterward, 
when  they  acquired  a  small  raise,  and  a  large 
baby,  both  in  the  same  month,  they  would  sit 
holding  each  other's  hands,  looking  at  their 
treasure,  and  talking  about  the  poverty  of  the 
first  year  of  their  married  life  before  the  addi- 
tional money  came  and  when  they  had  no  com- 
pensation like  the  baby  !  It  was  all  very  idyllic, 
but  kept  little  Brown  senior  rather  ill-dressed  and 
thin. 

253 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

When  Jameson  received  his  well-earned  success 
and  got  the  management  of  the  office,  he  said  one 
month :  "  I  need  a  man  here  to  help  me,  besides 
the  stenographer." 

They  said  he  could  have  half  a  dozen  if  he 
cared,  which  was  hyperbolic. 

He  went  out  amongst  the  staff  to  little  Brown. 
"  I  need  a  man  in  there,"  he  said,  "  and  I  want  to 
offer  you  the  position.  It  will  mean  advancement 
to  you  of  a  positive  sort,  if  you  care  to  learn  to 
put  up  with  me.  I  need  some  one  who  under- 
stands the  business  and  some  one  who  will  have 
the  patience  to  try  to  learn  to  understand  me 
too.  There  is  a  good  deal  of  work,  and  I  am 
willing  to  stand  well  by  any  one  who  knows  how 
to  share  the  minor  part  of  it." 

Young  Brown  had  stared  back  at  him  with  the 
dawn  of  almost  a  holy  pleasure  in  his  wide,  round 
eyes.  "  It  was  good  of  you  to  choose  me,"  he 
answered  simply.  "  Mrs.  Brown  will  be  glad." 
He  had  not  said  what  he  would  try  to  accomplish 
for  the  man  above  him,  and  he  did  not  know  that 
his  good  fortune  had  been  an  emotional  caprice ; 
but  the  various  babies  had  taught  him  a  great  deal 
of  patience,  so  he  got  along  with  his  new  employer 
capitally.  Whenever  he  did  not  understand  Jame- 
son, or  know  quite  how  to  take  his  humors,  there 
was  always  Mrs.  Brown  to  say,  "  Be  patient,  dear- 
est !  Remember,  he  has  no  home  life  like  ours 

254 


Home 

to  soften  the  hard  thoughts  for  him  !  "  and  there 
were  also  the  Brown  babies  to  tumble  into  his 
arms  of  an  evening. 

It  did  not  occur  to  Jameson  how  Brown  became 
such  an  invaluable  assistant  to  him,  but  he  advanced 
the  young  fellow  conscientiously.  After  a  long, 
long  pause,  this  day,  the  man  with  the  conserva- 
tive calm  to  his  face  said  again  simply  :  — 

"  Whom  did  you  say  told  you  that  Julian  was 
coming  home,  Brown  ? "  He  had  said  the  old 
boyish  name  without  thinking. 

"  Oh,  no  one  told  me,"  Brown  replied.  "  It 
was  in  the  paper;  I  read  it  in  this  morning's 
paper." 

The  busy  city  surged  and  swarmed  on  the 
streets  below  them.  Its  roar  came  up,  but  other- 
wise all  was  very  quiet. 

"  If  I  had  not  thought  you  knew  it,  Mr. 
Jameson,"  Brown  said,  "  I  might  have  mentioned 
it  earlier  to  you." 

"It  does  not  matter,"  the  man  returned.  "  I 
have  not  heard  from  him  since  he  left  the  city. 
I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  generally  known,  but 
we  had  a  sort  of  rupture.  It  was  nothing  very 
violent,  barely  anything,  now  I  come  to  think  of 
it,  but  just  a  widening.  It  is  rather  strange  to 
dwell  on  it." 

Brown  sat  and  listened  respectfully.  He  did 
not  know  what  to  answer.  After  a  bit,  his  senior 

255 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

rose,  and  walking  over  stood  looking  down  on 
the  busy  city. 

"  To  see  that  look  again  in  his  eyes  —  to  feel 
he  has  done  fine  work  and  out  of  such  suffering ! 
I  wonder  if —  Suada  is  Ludwiga !  I  had  not 
known  it  would  all  come  back  this  way.  Oh, 
my  God!  how  long?" 

There  was  the  busy  scratch,  scratching  of  his 
assistant's  pen.  After  a  little  he  went  back  to 
work  also. 

In  a  room  lined  with  handsome  frames  holding 
some  European  gems  that  Julian  had  brought 
back  with  him,  Jameson  and  Julian  met  again. 
They  had  to  step  over  some  unpacked  things  to 
reach  each  other,  and  once  near  enough  to  shake 
hands,  they  had  to  spring  and  rescue  a  Dresden 
vase  that  looked  frivolous  enough  to  be  rather 
expensive.  Then  they  grasped  hands  heartily. 

"  It  is  good  to  see  you  back,"  Jameson  ex- 
claimed. He  would  not  have  thought  of  calling 
him  Julian  for  the  world.  "  It  is  good  to  see 
you  back,  Joy."  He  wondered  why  he  had  ever 
thought  that  Julian  would  not  have  a  welcome 
for  him.  Julian  was  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  just  as 
he  had  been  that  last  night  when  he  had  unloos- 
ened his  collar  and  looked  as  if  he  were  about  to 
die  because  he  was  so  heart-broken.  But  while 
this  lent  a  subtle  help  to  one's  opinion  of  the 

256 


Home 

changes  in  him,  it  did  not  recall  that  pale-faced 
suffering  Julian  at  all,  in  an  unpleasant  manner. 
Once  Jameson  caught  himself  noticing  gratefully 
that  there  were  no  hollows  in  his  cheeks  or 
shoulders,  and  then  it  seemed  ridiculous. 

"  I  thought  I  should  come  at  once,"  he  com- 
menced apologetically,  partly  to  fill  in  time  and 
partly  because  the  room  was  upset,  —  "I  thought 
I  should  come  at  once.  If  I  had  known  when 
you  were  to  come,  via  what  line,  I  should  have 
been  there  to  meet  you." 

"  Oh,  thanks,  old  man,"  Julian  replied.  He 
slipped  into  a  handsome  jacket  and  sat  down  on 
a  big  labelled  box.  He  looked  like  Apollo  made 
over  to  appear  conventional  to  us.  He  had  a 
fine,  easy  picturesque  physique,  and  his  artist 
beard  lent  years  to  him,  years  that  he  could  not 
have  owned  if  one  had  put  two  and  two  together. 
He  made  a  fine,  healthy  contrast  to  the  man  still 
standing  beside  a  dismantled  easel. 

"  Oh,  sit  down,"  Julian  said.  "  You  're  surely 
not  going  to  be  upset  because  I  Ve  been  hammer- 
ing and  knocking  things  about  a  bit.  I  did  not 
have  to  do  it,  only  I  wanted  to.  You  and  I  used 
to  have  such  fun  moving." 

"Yes,  we  did,"  Jameson    answered.     He  sat 

down,  looking  rather  awkward  and  big-shouldered 

in  contrast  to  the  easy,  handsome  young  fellow 

before  him.     His  face  had  not  so  much  changed, 

17  257 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

Julian  thought,  as  it  had  merely  grown  older. 
There  were  marks  and  lines  and  gray  hairs  and 
some  certain  hunger.  They  sat  there,  neither 
knowing  quite  what  to  say  after  Jameson's  "  Yes, 
we  did."  There  should  have  been  so  much  to  re- 
member, so  much  to  laugh  over,  so  much  to  erase. 
Jameson  was  the  one  at  last.  "  It  was  splen- 
did of  you  to  do  that  work  so  soon,  Joy.  It  was 
the  sort  of  thing  that  almost  has  the  divine  breath 
in  it,  to  go  unknown  across  the  ocean  and  get 
into  the  Salon  so  soon.  I  was  paralyzed  when  I 
heard  it.  It  did  not  seem  long  ago  since  you 
wore  kilts  and  expected  candy  of  me.  We  have 
been  proud  of  you,  out  here,  my  boy." 

They  shook  hands  with  a  great  deal  more  force 
this  time,  and  the  Dresden  vase  nearly  saw  its 
undoing  again. 

"  There  has  n't  seemed  much  volition,  much 
actual  labor,"  Julian  replied.  "  I  was  in  a  fair 
way  to  succeed  when  I  went  over,  only  I  should 
never  have  found  it  out  but  for  you.  I  remem- 
ber all  you  did  for  me,  all  you  used  to  suggest 
and  say.  I  have  never  lost  the  thought  of  the 
friendship,  Jame,  old  boy,  and  when  the  great 
time  came  when  artist  fellows  who  had  seemed 
far,  far  above  me,  appeared  to  find  the  right  touch 
in  Suada,  and  —  and  —  rather  cottoned  to  me  in 
fact — why,  I  remember  I  stood  one  day  in  my 
room  and  felt  that  you  had  done  it  every  bit  for 

258 


Home 

me,  because  father  had  given  your  governor  ten 
cents,  or  something  like  that,  one  day." 

They  were  both  standing  now,  and  when 
Julian  laughed  nervously,  Jameson  put  all  his 
self-control  into  retaining  that  conservative  calm 
across  his  own  face.  It  was  the  way  he  best 
knew  himself  lately.  "  I  want  to  tell  you  about 
Suada,  Jameson.  They  wanted  to  buy  her  of  me 
over  there.  I  could  have  gotten  a  fine  price  for 
her.  Some  day  I  '11  take  them  up  on  other 
paintings,  and  we  can  have  the  best  cigars  ad  in- 
finifum,  without  pipe  intermissions.  I,"  —  he 
paused  a  second  —  "  I  have  brought  the  painting 
back  to  you,  old  man  !  I  want  you  to  take  it 
from  me.  It  will  be  splendid  of  you  if  you  will, 
for  it  will  make  me  feel  as  if  I  had  expressed 
something ;  whereas  the  work  was  all  yours,  all 
your  friendship  to  me,  when  I  might  have  thrown 
these  high  chances  all  away." 

"  You  may  regret  it,  Julian,"  the  older  man 
said.  It  was  the  only  time  he  had  used  the 'old 
name,  and  all  the  old  love  became  a  new  friend- 
ship in  it.  His  voice  stirred  Julian  to  the  very 
centre  of  man-thought  and  life.  "  Regret  it !  " 
he  cried,  taking  a  step  forward  and  laying  the  old 
boyish  grip  on  the  man's  broad  shoulder.  "  Why, 
I  never  look  at  Suada,  Jame,  but  I  think  of  how 
I  used  to  feel  as  a  little  fellow  over  that  lesson 
where  Columbus  did  all  the  work  and  America 

259 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

was  named  after  the  fellow  who  just  touched  the 
great  shores  and  did  n't  realize  it  at  all.  Be- 
sides/' he  said,  still  holding  on  to  Jameson's 
shoulder,  "  I  think  I  came  home  just  for  this 
one  purpose,  to  see  and  thank  and  smoke  with 
you,  and  to  give  you  Suada." 

"  This  is  coming  very  full-handed,"  said  Jame- 
son. He  had  not  had  a  single  offering  from 
affection  since  the  old,  old  times.  He  was  stirred 
beyond  his  usual  depths.  He  simply  stood  star- 
ing back  at  Julian,  with  his  lined  face  and  its 
strange  calm,  his  occasional  silvery  hairs,  and  that 
hunger  in  his  eyes. 

"  It 's  not,"  Julian  said,  "  it  is  absolutely  noth- 
ing as  money  value  goes,  only  it  is  the  first  fruit 
of  my  mind,  so  whenever  you  or  I  look  at 
it,  it  will  mean  something  personal  to  us,  some- 
thing I  never  want  to  forget,  old  fellow.  That 
is  all  there  is  worth  while  in  existence,  after  all. 
Now,"  he  ended,  "  I  want  you  to  stay  to  dinner, 
and  tell  us  what  you  Ve  been  doing  all  this  long 
time." 

"  Oh,  it's  been  nothing  very  interesting,"  Jame- 
son replied ;  "  Just  work  at  the  same  office, 
almost  at  the  same  desk.  Then  they  got  new 
quarters.  You  must  come  and  see  us,  —  a  new 
building  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  We  fellows  were 
not  acclimatized  to  it  readily.  We  used  to  long 
for  the  old  halls,  where  even  the  light  of  genius 

260 


Home 

failed  to  be  an  illumination.  I  insisted  on  using 
my  old  desk  at  first,  just  to  keep  in  touch  with 
the  old  identity,  but  they  took  it  from  me,  and 
now  I  have  a  sort  of  fine  atmosphere  about  me, 
that  used  to  seem  like  Rockefeller." 

"  That  speaks  for  itself,"  the  young  fellow  re- 
marked. 

"  I  want  you  to  stay  the  evening  with  us  now," 
he  went  on,  when  Jameson  made  no  effort  to  re- 
main. "  I  want  mother  to  see  you.  She  never 
quite  understood  about  you,  and  worried  a  good 
deal  at  first.  I  often  thought  I  should  write,  and 
then  it  seemed  as  if  there  were  n't  so  much  to  say 
as  to  do ;  so  now  Suada  will  say  all  for  me. 
You  see  Suada,  the  real  Suada,  is  my  wife,"  he 
said,  and  stood  there,  smiling,  handsome. 

"  Suada  is  what  ? "  Jameson  asked  when  he 
was  able  to  do  so. 

"  Suada  is  my  wife"  Julian  returned.  "  One 
day  she  came  into  the  studio,  and  it  was  all  right 
from  then  on.  I  never  knew  quite  how  she  had 
influenced  the  boyish  part  of  me,  until  we  met 
as  man  and  woman.  Then  we  were  on  equal 
ground,  and  there  could  be  but  one  outcome." 
He  gave  a  deep,  happy  laugh  over  the  memory, 
rather  than  over  any  present  meaning  of  it. 

"  Imagine  painting  your  ideal  woman,  and  then 
having  her  walk  into  your  studio  and  look  at 
you  !  " 

261 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"  I  know  you  will  be  happy,"  Jameson  man- 
aged to  insert. 

"  Happy/'  repeated  the  young  man  ;  "  it  is 
just  having  completed  longing,  that  is  all."  Now 
he  was  the  old  Julian,  radiant,  full  of  little  ripples 

—  "  Now  life  is  one  smooth  run,  all  dead  easy. 
c  We  '11  just  keep  alivin'  an*  alovin'  as  the  years 
go  glidin'  by/     If  you  stay  you  will  see  her  also, 
meet  and  talk  with  her  —  she  was  Antonia  Vlor, 
you  know." 

The  afternoon  had  been  growing  old,  and  they 
found  themselves  in  a  certain  gloom  that  seemed 
to  demand  clearer  tones  from  Jameson's  deep 
voice. 

"  I  did  not  know  that,  Joy,"  he  said,  —  "I  did 
not  know  that." 

He  stood  still  and  big  a  moment,  and  then  he 
moved  toward  the  door.  cc  It  is  election  time," 
he  explained,  "  and  I  have  to  go  back  to  the 
office.  It  is  to  be  a  busy  night,  otherwise  noth- 
ing could  drag  me  away  from  you  and  the  women 
folks.  I  am  glad  for  you.  You  will  have  to  let 
me  come  again." 

As  he  went  down  the  stairs,  he  buttoned  his 
coat  as  if  he  felt  a  little  chilly.  Once  out  on 
the  darkening  street  he  murmured  something. 

"  If  I  had  mentioned  Ludwiga's  name,  he  would 
probably  have  said  that  she  was  a  sweet  little  thing 

—  that  she  had  been  a  sweet  little  thing  !  " 

262 


Home 

He  went  on,  saying  it  over  and  over.  The 
world  had  yielded  so  little  to  him.  Once  he 
stumbled,  and  after  that  paid  better  heed  to  his 
way. 

Over  the  dreams  of  our  youth  should  be 
written,  "  Here  reposes  a  little  child,"  so  that 
we  may  be  excused  for  weeping  a  tear  or  so  on 
it  once  in  a  while. 


363 


XXIX 

HARVEST-HOME 

THERE  had  been  no  change  to  speak  of 
in  the  Terrace,  or  rather  the  changes 
had  been  so  gradual,  so  natural,  that  the 
Terrace,  even  without  the  actual  presence  of  its 
old  inhabitants,  seemed  far  less  deserted  than 
many  other  places  might  have  appeared. 

At  first,  just  after  Julian  and  Jameson  left  the 
Terrace,  there  had  been  no  change  at  all.  Ould 
Casey  went  after  his  beer,  and  quite  as  regularly 
drank  it,  while  the  O' Byrnes  and  Deborah  just 
lived  on,  and  the  half-Florentine  girl  with  the 
American  ways  and  the  German  name  played 
oftener  with  the  O' Byrne  baby.  There  were 
secrets  in  her  eyes  those  days,  and  he  could  not 
see  them. 

The  billows  had  been  "  God's  billows."  Life 
had  worked  on  life,  and  influence  on  influence  ; 
but  in  the  mind  of  the  Most  High  had  been  the 
"  spiritual  coherence "  which  brought  Antonia 
back  to  Julian's  life  when  a  new  Antonia,  —  one 
not  morally  blind,  was  most  needed.  On  the 
Other  hand,  if  Ludwiga  were  to  meet  Jameson 

264 


Harvest-Home 

again,  it  would  be  under  stronger  lights,  —  lights 
that  would  dispel  all  shade,  and  shock  them  into 
a  deeper,  more  irresistible  recognition. 

"  God  gives  us  love.     Something  to  love 

He  lends  us  ;  but  when  love  is  grown 
To  ripeness,  that  on  which  it  throve 
Falls  off,  and  love  is  left  alone." 

About  the  end  of  the  fourth  year,  Alfons  mar- 
ried the  strange  half-Irish  girl,  Deborah  Murphy. 

Lest  you  should  wonder  at  all  about  it,  his 
declaration  and  their  courtship  were  quite  as  un- 
expected and  quite  as  tender  as  heart  could  wish. 

At  first  he  called  it  an  interest  in  her.  He 
was  in  no  mood  to  know  love  as  love  after  such 
a  long  play-time  with  the  emotion.  He  just 
called  it  an  interest  in  Deborah.  Then  he  grew 
strangely  interested  in  her,  almost  remarkably 
so.  He  quarrelled  more  deliberately  with  her, 
less  enjoyably.  There  were  times  when  he  said 
things  to  her  which  he  might  have  said  to  the 
women  with  whom  he  flirted,  —  only  he  was  seri- 
ous with  Deborah.  Possibly  Deborah's  being 
serious  accounted  for  this  result.  He  realized 
her  condition,  her  being  a  bachelor  woman,  this 
offence  seeming  to  mean  social  obliteration  to 
her,  much  as  crime  forces  political  obliteration  on 
a  man ;  but  propinquity  had  entrapped  him, 
irretrievably. 

This  was  brought  home  to  him  rather  abruptly 
265 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

one  afternoon.  He  was  walking  along  the  street, 
when  he  saw  a  woman  just  a  little  ahead  of  him. 
He  had  seldom  seen  Deborah  away  from  the 
Terrace,  so  he  did  not  recognize  her  immediately. 
When  he  did,  it  was  with  a  feeling  of  exhilaration, 
as  if  she  were  some  one  he  had  long  been  in  search 
of,  although  he  had  left  her  only  that  morning, 
quarrelling  as  they  parted,  trying  to  see  who 
would  have  the  last  word. 

He  observed  with  that  flattering  unction  so 
familiar  to  us  in  our  hours  of  pride,  that  Deborah 
was  a  woman  of  whom  one  might  well  be  proud. 
In  the  crowd  of  gaudy  and  mediocre  people,  she 
moved  calmly,  as  a  lady  who  was  not  only  her 
own  ancestor,  but  she  might  have  been  the 
daughter  of  a  hundred  earls  as  well.  There  was 
a  grace  about  her  movements  which  enraptured 
him.  He  was  unable  to  explain  the  reason  of  his 
action,  but,  obeying  the  impulse,  he  followed  her. 
He  imagined  at  the  time  that  it  was  merely  to 
perfect  one  of  his  unusually  preposterous  jokes 
upon  her,  but  as  he  continued  in  her  wake  his 
feeling  changed. 

It  was  one  of  the  strangest  things  that  had 
ever  happened  to  him,  this  meeting  Deborah 
away  from  home,  and  regarding  her  not  only  as 
if  she  were  a  stranger,  but  a  strange  woman.  It 
would  have  been  delightful  had  it  not  given  him 
a  strange  sensation  about  his  heart. 


Harvest-Home 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  depot,  and 
observing  that  Deborah  purchased  a  ticket  for  a 
suburban  town,  Alfons  mechanically  did  the  same. 
Passing  through  the  waiting-room,  he  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  face  in  a  mirror.  It  was  a  quiet 
face,  and  was  looking  at  him  with  a  too  quiet 
expression,  as  if  a  curtain  were  dropped  before 
the  eyes,  shutting  the  bright  things  out,  —  such 
bright  things  as  he  had  believed  the  only  real 
illuminations  of  life.  Suddenly,  as  it  grew  more 
familiar  to  him,  he  realized  it  was  his  own  present 
self  that  he  was  contemplating,  with  the  wonder- 
ing eyes  of  that  "  little  beautiful  brother,  the  man 
he  had  hoped  to  be." 

When  Deborah  went  into  the  cabin  he  followed 
her,  but  as  he  took  a  seat  beside  her,  she  gave  a 
little  shriek  of  terror  which  sounded  so  young  and 
so  artificial  that  it  restored  him,  in  a  measure. 

"You  are  arriving  at  the  age  now/'  he  re- 
marked, looking  studiously  before  him  as  if  it 
were  a  ponderous  subject  and  required  earnest- 
ness, "  when,  if  you  wish  to  keep  young,  you 
must  catch  hold  of  Time  by  the  coat-tails  and 
hang  onto  him  ;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  if  you  are 
going  to  surrender  like  a  sensible  woman,  you 
must  hand  over  your  sword  to  him,  as  all  defeated 
generals  do,  and  stop  practising  all  those  coquet- 
ries in  which  you  have  been  indulging  for  so 
long  a  time." 

267 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

Deborah  sat,  staring  straight  before  her,  but 
occasionally  stealing  a  furtive  glance  at  him. 
Needless  to  say,  she  ignored  his  flippant  remarks 
utterly. 

"  Where  are  you  going  ? "  she  asked  him 
presently. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  he  answered.  "  As  I  came 
to  the  boat  I  saw  a  huge  placard,  stating  that 
there  was  to  be  an  open-air  concert  across  the 
bay,  to  be  given  in  aid  of  the  c  Undenomina- 
tional Orphans/  and  I  decided  to  claim  that  as 
my  destination,  should  I  be  suspected  of  follow- 
ing you." 

"  I  am  going  to  the  open-air  concert  of  the 
c  Undenominational  Orphans,' '  she  remarked, 
setting  her  lips  a  trifle. 

"  Why  are  you  going  ?  "  asked  Alfons  after  a 
second. 

"  Oh,  every  one  goes  to  them,"  she  replied. 

"  Then  that  is  also  my  reason  for  going.  I 
had  none  before.  It  is  more  respectable  to  have 
a  reason.  By  the  way,  speaking  of  the  concert 
reminds  me  of  the  little  girl  in  some  asylum 
whom  you  used  to  befriend.  How  is  she  getting 
along?" 

"  I  now  assist  her  more  indirectly,"  returned 
Deborah.  "  It  is  plebeian  to  force  one's  self  on 
poverty." 

"  Indeed  ?  "  returned  Alfons.  After  a  while 
268 


Harvest-Home 

he  asked  more  gravely,  "  Are  undenominational 
orphans  different  from  other  orphans  ? " 

She  hesitated  just  a  moment.  "  The  country 
is  running  to  scepticism,"  she  answered ;  "  and 
undenominational  orphans  are  more  fashionable 
just  now/' 

At  this  they  both  looked  out  of  the  narrow 
window  before  them,  and  both  were  thinking,  but 
neither  spoke. 

After  an  interval  of  silence,  she  spoke  to  him : 

"  Something  unexpected  has  happened  to  me." 
He  arose  with  a  certain  degree  of  violence.  He 
did  not  know  that  it  was  inconsistent  with  his 
mother's  breeding  for  him  to  do  such  a  thing, 
but  as  he  stood  before  Deborah  there  was  some- 
thing so  pleading  in  the  attitude  that  she  for- 
gave the  action. 

"  You  are  going  to  be  married  ? "  Alfons  ex- 
plained, as  he  looked  in  her  face. 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  quite  sedately,  in  the 
same  manner  in  which  he  had  spoken  of  the  con- 
cert. "In  reality,  I  had  not  intended  to  get 
married  until  just  this  moment,  but  since  you 
have  suggested  it,  the  idea  grows  in  favor  with 
me,  just  as  your  going  to  the  concert  must  have 
done." 

He  sat  down  laughing.  "  They  say  c  fightin* 
and  scartin'  is  the  Scotch  way  of  courtinV  I 
wish  we  were  Scotch,  Deborah ! " 

269 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

After  a  time  she  said:  "The  something  'un- 
expected '  of  which  I  spoke  has  happened  to  our 
landlady.  She  has  fallen  heir  to  a  fortune  at 
last.  The  uncle  with  whom  she  quarrelled  has 
died  at  such  an  advanced  age  that  it  was  impos- 
sible for  him  to  frame  a  will.  He  had  put  off 
doing  so  for  years,  so  now  it  will  all  come  to  her. 
The  house,  of  course,  will  change  hands,  and  I 
may  leave  the  Terrace  in  consequence." 

"  I  can't  imagine  the  Terrace  without  you," 
replied  Alfons,  simply. 

She  had  had  a  very  loveless  life,  and  would  not 
accept  the  implied  kindness.  She  attempted  to 
say  something  frivolous  in  return,  but  came  very 
near  the  flame  in  her  disport. 

"  Without  me,  or  my  ancestry,  you  will  indeed 
be  lonesome !" 

"  Without  you  or  your  bookcase  or  your 
ancestry,"  he  repeated,  —  "  without  you  !  " 

Deborah  smiled,  the  old  smile  of  their  years 
of  cheerful  wrangling.  "  You  will  not  lose  the 
heart  out  of  your  wit  because  of  that,"  she  re- 
marked to  him.  "You  will  lose  the  bookcase, 
you  will  lose  me,  you  will  also  lose  the  warm 
affection  you  must  have  acquired  for  my  grand- 
parents, in  the  spirit,  but  you  will  retain  the  in- 
spiration of  it  all.  I  can  picture  you  quite  a  gay 
old  man,  a  sort  of  c  grand  seigneur/  like  your 
grandparent,  only  a  little  more  human  because  of 

270 


Harvest-Home 

your  American  birth,  and  I  can  hear  you  saying 
to  the  new-comers :  c  Here  dwelt  a  maid  who 
had  no  grandfather,  had  only  a  bookcase  which 
was  suspected  of  having  been  a  cupboard,  and 
not  very  well  filled  at  that.  She  was  not  a  nice 
girl,  nor  yet  very  good-looking,  and  she  had  not 
the  accomplishment  of  love,  only  its  never-ending 
power,  so  she  bored  me,  and  I  had  to  turn  to  the 
beautiful  world  for  consolation/ ' 

"  Stop  !  "  he  interrupted  suddenly.  "  You 
must  not  mock  me,  Deborah.  Not  any  old 
grand  seigneur,  indeed  ;  rather  some  driftwood  so 
rotted  by  the  swish  of  the  sea  as  to  be  unfit  even 
for  a  cottage  fire." 

She  looked  into  the  soft  dark  eyes,  and  was 
moved  at  the  sadness  she  saw  reflected  in  their 
depths.  She  was  only  a  woman,  and  the  time 
had  come  when  life  was  interpreted  to  her,  and 
only  what  was  good  and  noble  in  it  were  worth 
while.  Alfons  and  she  had  played  a  long  time 
and  were  a-weary.  As  the  boat  grated  against 
the  landing  she  looked  up  at  him  and  began  to 
speak.  "  I  have  combated  your  life,"  she  said, 
"  rather  than  contributed  to  it.  I  have  called 
you  a  derelict  on  the  great  sea  of  life,  where  men 
and  even  women  are  struggling  to  save  some  little 
skiff.  I  have  said  you  were  a  libertine  and  a 
drunkard,  one  who  let  idle  pleasure  run  into 
habitual  wrong,  but  in  these  devious  ways  I  have 

271 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

come  to  you.  I  want  you  to  know  all  that  life 
has  asked  of  me  for  you,  Alfons.  I  think  that 
I  have  loved  you  for  a  hundred  years." 

He  forbore  to  take  advantage  of  the  moment. 
It  was  a  time-worn  phrase,  but  it  represented  the 
utmost  she  had  to  give  him,  and  for  some  reason 
unknown  to  him  she  had  seen  fit  to  acquaint 
him  with  her  generosity.  He  stood  staring  at 
her.  Then  she  spoke  again  :  "  Great  gifts  do  no 
harm  in  the  bestowing,  and  I  have  felt  it  might 
stimulate  your  purpose  in  life  to  know  that  some 
one  cared  for  you,  —  some  one  who  would  think  it 
worth  while  to  help  you  to  become  a  nobler  man." 

She  had  come  from  a  long  line  of  laboring 
people,  he  thought,  and  he  had  descended  from  a 
long  line  of  idlers,  who  had  lived  on  a  soil  insuffi- 
cient to  sustain  them,  but  "  out  of  the  darkness 
had  they  met  to  read  life's  meaning  in  each  other's 
eyes." 

Then  he  spoke  the  same  thought  to  her  :  "  Out 
of  the  dark  and  the  gloom  of  life  we  have  emerged, 
facing  each  other.  It  has  seemed  like  a  hundred 
thousand  years,  Deborah  !  " 

People  were  crowding  off  the  boat.  After  a 
bit,  as  they  stood  close  together,  she  reached  out 
to  him  her  trembling  hand.  They  went  off  like 
two  lovers.  They  did  not  seem  to  care  what 
people  were  thinking  of  them,  or  whether  people 
were  thinking  at  all. 

272 


Harvest-Home 

Ludwiga  alone  was  able  to  lay  hands  on  the 
marvel  of  it.  That  night  in  her  own  little 
thought-book  she  wrote,  "  I  am  not  surprised 
at  it.  *  Hast  thou  not  known  ?  hast  thou  not 
heard,  that  the  everlasting  God,  the  Lord,  the 
Creator  of  the  ends  of  the  earth  .  .  .  there  is  no 
searching  of  His  understanding/  ' 

Then  they  married  and  went  away,  to  another 
part  of  the  city ;  it  was  very  lonely  afterwards. 
Ludwiga  often  went  back  to  see  the  people,  until 
one  day  the  O' Byrne  baby  was  big  enough  to  go  to 
a  blind  asylum  and  learn  to  read.  After  that  she 
could  not  bear  it,  and  stayed  away.  It  was  like  a 
grave  after  our  sorrow  is  ended.  Strange  people 
moved  into  the  little  flats,  and  she  roomed  in  a 
tenderly  furnished  den  off  Deborah's  and  Alfons's 
apartments. 

She  lived  her  own  strange  little  life,  but  they 
were  glad  to  have  her  near  them.  "  Some  day," 
they  used  to  say,  thinking  of  each  other. 


18  273 


XXX 

WHEN   THE   GODS   ARRIVE 

JAMESON  went  back  to  the  office.  It  was 
to  be  a  busy  night,  and  his  presence  was  nec- 
essary. Just  those  first  hours'  work  seemed 
rather  necessary  too. 

Brown  had  not  returned  from  his  dinner ;  and 
from  Mrs.  Brown  and  the  babies.  Time  went 
by,  and  he  did  not  come,  but  Jameson  knew 
that  he  would  do  so.  Brown  was  sure  as  death, 
casually  speaking. 

There  was  a  great  deal  of  work  to  do,  but 
Jameson  just  sat  at  his  desk  and  did  not  do  it. 
Once  he  flung  out  his  arms  and  let  his  head  sink 
forward  on  them.  There  was  nothing  of  interest 
concerning  politics  occurring  in  the  office ;  noth- 
ing to  suggest  that  the  paper  was  on  the  verge  of 
a  great  city  'election. 

Presently  the  man  dreamed. 

He  was  not  asleep,  but  numb,  like  a  person 
who  is  unconscious  save  for  some  tiny,  tiny  por- 
tion of  his  brain.  This  was  quite  active,  and  con- 
jured strange  pictures  for  him,  produced  memories 

274 


IV hen  the  Gods  Arrive 

which  had  been  so  long  absent  that  he  had  grown 
to  believe  them  dead. 

He  dreamed  of  Julian  again,  —  the  boy  Julian, 
who  had  been  wont  to  stand  in  his  mother's  luxu- 
rious country  home,  perhaps  whittling  at  a  stick 
while  they  were  laying  plans  for  his  future.  One 
day  (this  image  had  dark,  curly  hair  and  long 
trousers),  the  boy  had  come  over  shyly,  and  lain 
a  hand  on  Jameson's  shoulder.  "  I  don't  care  so 
much  about  the  art,"  he  had  cried  impetuously, 
"or  the  city,  unless  I  go  with  you." 

After  this  Jameson  thought  of  the  man  whom 
he  had  just  left  in  his  handsome  studio,  sur- 
rounded by  beautiful  things,  and  somewhere, 
hidden,  that  beautiful  inspiration  which  he  had 
wrought  for  himself  after  Jameson's  guideship 
was  over. 

Then  Jameson  dreamed  of  Antonia,  how  he 
himself  could  have  had  her  for  the  asking,  and 
how  one  night  she  had  said  :  — 

"  To-day  I  saw  a  woman.  She  had  on  a  funny 
dress  that  would  be  excusable  in  a  painting,  but 
looked  rather  shabby  under  her  eyes.  She  is 
Alfons  Strong's  sister,  —  you  remember  young 
Strong.  I  nearly  screamed  when  I  saw  her. 
She  was  trying  to  carry  a  fat  Irish  baby  over 
a  crowded  crossing,  and  walk  like  a  queen.  My 
man  all  but  drove  into  them.  I  do  not  know 
why  I  kept  thinking  of  her,  but  it  has  enter- 

275 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

tained  me  all  day.  I  suppose  she  is  married, 
and  maybe  that  was  her  child.  It  is  so  funny 
to  think  of  whom  people  marry,  why  they  choose. 
This  girl  is  very,  very  funny  to  me,  like  a  prayer. 
He  must  be  stolid,  stout,  with  unblinking  eyes, 
like  an  Egyptian  idol,  his  fat  hands  folded  across 
his  breast,  —  honest,  honest,  honest." 

Jameson  had  sat  and  listened  to  her.  He  had 
been  like  the  great  man  who  "  had  picked  up 
this  or  that  pretty  pebble  or  shell  for  diversion 
while  the  great  ocean  of  truth  lay  all  undis- 
covered at  his  feet." 

Again,  it  was  only  words  which  Jameson  re- 
membered, like  love,  and  life,  and  forever,  and 
peace.  Afterward  he  dreamed  of  Ludwiga 
herself. 

She  was  clad  in  a  gown  this  time  that  would 
be  most  excusable  in  a  painting,  because  it  was  so 
unreal,  like  the  flowing  robes  in  angels*  pictures, 
and  she  was  surrounded  by  many  bright  lights 
and  many  flowers,  "  flowers  of  all  hue  and  with- 
out thorn,  —  the  rose."  Then  he  realized  that 
she  was  probably  dead ;  that  she  was  no  longer 
a  living,  groping  little  thing,  but  translated. 

It  was  all  very  beautiful,  that,  like  a  glimpse 
of  heaven;  and  the  tiny  active  portion  of  his 
numbed  brain  did  not  suffer  at  all  from  it.  It 
was  merely  pretty,  merely  pictorial.  But  it  was 
not  to  end  there.  He  dreamed  on  and  on  ;  once 


JVhen  the  Gods  Arrive 

that  he  was  married  to  some  other  woman,  some 
fine,  noble,  conventional  woman,  and  one  evening 
she  had  said  at  dinner  :  "  What  do  you  suppose 
is  in  the  evening  paper  ?  A  girl  with  grocery 
eyes  is  dead  !  "  (Grocery  eyes  had  been  what 
Alfons  called  them.) 

And  he  had  mumbled  in  answer :  "  What  do 
I  care  about  that,  you  woman  who  wear  your 
clothes  so  well  and  preside  so  tenderly  over  my 
house  and  table  !  " 

And  she,  the  wife,  had  answered :  "  But  this 
girl's  name  is  Strong !  " 

It  was  very  expressive,  and  after  it  had  been 
uttered,  he  suffered  very  much ;  he  cared  a  great 
deal. 

"  But  this  girl's  name  is  Strong !  " 

It  was  not  right  of  him,  but  all  life  and  its 
meaning  was  in  that  simple  sentence,  "  But  this 
girl's  name  is  Strong  !  " 

He  had  liked  to  think  of  her  as  living.  He 
had  done  better  work  when  this  was  so.  He 
liked  to  remember  her,  strong,  young,  brave,  as 
she  had  appeared  to  the  Terrace  people,  with  all 
that  faith  in  her  eyes,  all  that  optimism  in  her 
smile.  He  even  liked  to  remember  her  rather 
tired,  a  certain  droop  to  the  strong  young  shoul- 
ders, a  certain  stamp  of  care  on  her  face,  but 
brave  still. 

Oh,  it  was  sweet  to  have  known  that  she  was 
277 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

living,  that  her  face  had  not  passed  out  of  mean- 
ing, as  dead  faces  do.  Her  face  was  ever  so  very 
human,  so  full  of  riddles,  unusual  incongruities ; 
the  strength  bequeathed  by  some  long-dead  an- 
cestor, those  smiling,  wonderful  Florentine  eyes, 
the  quaint  little  shadow  cast  athwart  her  by  that 
hideous  little  German  name.  To  have  died,  to 
have  folded  her  useful  hands,  to  be  lying  smiling 
in  some  quiet  room  in  that  impossible-to-break, 
long  silence,  clad  in  some  slight  gown  held  by 
slender  stitches,  a  candle  at  her  head  lighting  up 
the  expression  which  knowledge  held  there,  "  with 
sandals  loose  "  at  last. 

The  tiny  active  portion  of  his  brain  seemed  to 
become  numb  also.  After  what  seemed  a  long 
time  he  heard  some  noise,  to  which  he  found  him- 
self responding  mechanically. 

It  was  still  evening  in  the  office,  and  he  was 
sitting  at  his  desk  as  usual,  staring  stupidly  up  at 
young  Brown.  Dulled  as  were  his  senses,  he 
realized  that  young  Brown  looked  appalled,  as  if 
something  dreadful  had  just  happened. 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?  "  Jameson  asked  after  a 
second. 

"  Why,  it  is  ten  o'clock/*  young  Brown  re- 
plied, "  ten  o'clock,  and  there  is  an  ocean  of  work 
to  do  before  press  time." 

"  Well,  it  does  n't  matter  as  far  as  I  am  con- 
cerned," answered  Jameson,  dully. 

278 


JVhen  the  Gods  Arrive 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ? "  blurted  out  the 
younger  man.  "  What  do  you  mean,  Jameson?  " 

Jameson  rose  to  his  feet,  pushing  some  papers 
from  him. 

"  It  means  I  can't  work  to-night,"  he  replied. 
"  I  am  sick.  I  am  all  gone  to  pieces,  anything  you 
want  to  say  ;  but  I  cannot  work  this  evening." 

He  even  reached  toward  his  hat  as  if  he  were 
going  out.  Young  Brown  caught  hold  of  him. 

"  I  don't  know  what  is  the  matter  with  you, 
Jameson,"  he  exclaimed,"  but  whatever  has  come 
over  your  mind,  it  has  come  at  the  wrong  time. 
You  '11  just  have  to  stay  and  do  the  work.  We 
two  are  the  only  ones  capable  of  dealing  with  it, 
and  I  am  going  away  myself." 

"  You  are  going  to  do  what  ? "  repeated  the 
older  man,  hardly  realizing  the  significance  of 
their  position,  but  aware  that  it  bore  a  vital  rele- 
vancy to  something. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  stay  myself,"  Brown 
replied,  with  a  new  quality  of  sternness  in  his 
voice.  He  felt  that  a  great  deal  depended  on  it, 
and  he  was  desirous  of  forcing  the  truth  of  this 
on  the  tall,  broad-shouldered  man  before  him 
with  wreckage  in  his  face.  He  felt  as  if  he  must 
make  Jameson  do  the  work.  He  make  Jame- 
son !  It  was  very  funny,  but  the  work  must  be 
done,  it  was  very  necessary. 

"  You  see,"  Brown  said,  standing  between 
279 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

Jameson  and  the  door,  "  both  of  us  should 
have  been  working  since  six  o'clock,  but  I  could 
not  get  back.  I  got  nearly  crazy,  but  I  could 
not  get  back,  I  say.  You  know  it  must  have 
been  sickness.  Nothing  could  have  kept  me 
away  but  sickness."  After  a  while  (gulping  a 
little)  he  said :  "  It  was  such  a  sickness  that  I 
did  not  mind  about  the  work  at  all,  or  if  it  went 
to  the  devil !  But  yet  I  think  I  had  a  latent 
thought  that  you  were  doing  it  for  us,  just  as 
you  did  that  time  the  baby  nearly  died,  and  I 
came  in  about  thirteen  in  the  morning.  Then, 
—  then  when  I  got  here  you  were  asleep,  and 
nothing  at  all  had  been  done,  and  I  felt  suicidal. 
Every  moment  is  against  us  now.  Buckle  down, 
Jameson,  and  go  at  it." 

Jameson  sat  down  heavily.  He  brought  some 
papers  toward  him  and  looked  at  them.  Then 
he  raised  one  and  pushed  it  from  him. 

"  It  is  no  use,"  he  said,  as  if  he  were  sorry  for 
Brown,  but  rather  weary  as  to  himself.  "  They 
don't  mean  the  least  to  me.  I  can't  work  this 
evening." 

Brown  nearly  shouted.  Then  he  saw  that  it 
was  an  untactful  mode  of  action,  so  he  leaned 
over  the  desk  with  such  gravity  in  his  gaze  that 
it  nearly  forced  Jameson  back  into  his  chair  like 
muscular  effort.  As  it  was,  the  man  sat  look- 
ing up  at  him. 

280 


When  the  Gods  Arrive 

"  I  do  not  know  what  is  the  matter  with  you," 
Brown  said.  "A  stranger  might  almost  think 
you  had  been  drinking ;  but  it  is  not  that.  I 
know  you  too  well,  and  I  like  and  respect  you ; 
but  I  can't  take  your  place  this  evening.  I  can't 
work  to-night.  We  may  just  as  well  come  to 
business.  To-morrow,  next  week,  I  'd  almost 
lay  down  my  life  for  you,  but  not  to-night. 

C»,  3  >» 

an  t  you  see  r 

A  clock  on  their  handsome  mantel  began  to 
strike.  At  first  they  both  thought  it  was  eleven, 
and  then  it  was  merely  ten-thirty,  one  half-hour 
signal.  More  would  have  been  unendurable. 

"  You  see,  there  is  a  friend  of  ours,"  Brown 
went  on,  "  who  has  been  very  sick,  and  the  crisis 
was  to  occur  this  evening.  She  has  been  the 
best  friend  we  ever  had.  You  remember  when 
the  children  got  the  diphtheria  and  we  thought  we 
were  going  to  lose  the  baby — you  have  always 
been  good  these  last  years  about  the  babies." 

Jameson  smiled.  It  was  not  a  smile  that 
would  jar  even  sorrow. 

"  I  do  not  know  why  I  was,"  he  said. 

"  I  do,"  Brown  answered.  "  It  is  because  you 
need  babies  also.  Every  one  of  us  needs  them, 
and  what  they  represent.  You  men  do  some 
heavy  joshing  on  me,  Jameson,  until  some  of 
you  go  off  and  get  married,  and  then  you  are 
different  fellows." 

281 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

"Well,  you  were  telling  about  this  nurse," 
Jameson  said. 

Brown  started. 

"  She  is  n't  a  nurse  at  all,"  he  answered,  "  only 
a  friend ;  a  woman  that  goes  about  doing  kind 
little  things  for  people  who  can't  afford  trained 
nurses.  My  wife  was  sick,  and  every  baby  was 
down  too,  and  we  did  not  know  what  to  do  until 
Ludwiga  came  in  one  day,  a  perfect  stranger. 
She  had  just  heard  about  us,  and  was  n't  afraid, 
and  since  then  we  have  been  great  friends  with 
her. 

"Then  she  got  sick  herself,  lately.  We  did 
not  know  of  it  for  some  time,  or  we  would  have 
made  her  come  home  to  us.  She  did  not  come 
in  the  usual  time  to  see  us ;  we  thought  she  was 
with  her  brother,  but  he  and  his  wife  have  gone 
away  to  Alaska.  It  is  a  long  way  to  Alaska 
when  a  person  has  not  months,  only  hours  maybe, 
to  live." 

That  was  parenthetical  and  very  pathetic. 
Then  he  continued  speaking,  his  words  fast,  thick, 
almost  unintelligible. 

"  The  children  have  not  been  very  well,  and  I 
was  extra  busy  here  at  the  office ;  but  one  even- 
ing I  looked  her  up.  It  was  terrible,"  said 
Brown.  "  She  had  gotten  some  kind  of  fever 
just  a  few  days  after  her  brother  left.  She  was 
over  in  the  hospital,  the  Romish  hospital  on 

282 


When  the  Gods  Arrive 

Rincon  Hill.  They  thought  she  was  dying,  but 
might  pull  through.  She  is  not  Romish  either. 
I  am  glad  of  it,  for  she  was  so  sick,  Jameson,  I 
think  she  would  have  died  if  they  had  given  her 
absolution.  It  would  have  been  a  good  excuse. 

"  To-night  was  to  be  the  crisis.  I  went  home 
to  find  that  one  of  the  babies  had  had  a  fall  and 
my  wife  could  not  leave  it.  There  is  a  time 
when  parenthood  seems  damned  selfishness,  but 
you  can't  help  it.  My  wife  could  n't  leave  the 
baby,  so  I  went  myself.  I  did  not  know  what 
to  do,  but  I  just  had  to  go  there,  although  I 
knew  you  needed  me  so  much  here. 

"  All  the  road  over,  I  thought  and  thought, 
but  there  was  only  one  civilized  thing  for  me  to 
do.  I  saw  the  nurse.  She  said  to-night  was  to  be 
the  crisis  between  twelve  and  dawn.  If  the  girl 
lived  until  then,  she  was  all  right ;  but  she  might 
not  do  so.  There  was  only  one  thought,  I  say, 
Jameson.  I  sat  down  beside  her  bed  and  forgot 
everything  except  what  we  owed  her.  If  she  had 
to  die,  it  should  be  with  a  friend's  grateful  hand 
in  hers.  If  her  eyes  were  to  open  toward  life 
and  an  earthly  future,  it  should  be  to  see  a  wel- 
come smile  in  a  friend's  thankful  face.  I  sat 
waiting. 

"  The  work  here  meant  nothing  to  me  just  at 
first.  Then  about  nine,  all  my  service  here,  all 
your  kindness  to  me,  reached  a  sort  of  climax. 

283 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

I  pulled  out  my  watch,  and  saw  I  had  time  to 
get  over  here  and  tell  you,  and  be  back  there 
before  twelve." 

He  had  put  his  case,  and  more  words  could  not 
strengthen  it. 

"  I  am  going  now,"  he  said  to  Jameson. 
"  Hold  the  job  for  me,  if  you  can." 

Jameson  seemed  to  awaken  somewhat. 

"  What  did  you  say  her  name  was? "  he  asked. 
"  It  sounded  like  a  name  of  which  I  had  been 
thinking." 

"  Oh,  it  is  not  a  name  one  could  forget  or  get 
twisted,"  Brown  answered  with  a  certain  wonder. 
"  It  is  Ludwiga,  Ludwiga  Strong." 


284 


XXXI 

NOT   ON   THE   HOSPITAL   STAFF 

THE  great  silent  hospital  lies  well  to  the 
east  of  the  city,  a  twenty  minutes'  walk, 
perhaps,  from  the  very  core  of  the  town. 
You  go  along  Market  Street  a  short  distance,  but 
at  that  time  of  night  there  is  not  much  commo- 
tion ;  besides,  it  is  below  the  traffic  line.  Then 
there  is  street  after  street  toward  the  south,  of 
crowded  buildings,  tenements,  saloons.  Every 
other  light  is  the  signal  glare  of  evil.  But  the 
sons  of  Belial  are  not  always  abroad.  That  even- 
ing all  was  very  dark,  very  still ;  yet,  although 
this  impression  of  quiet  may  be  attained,  there  is 
a  subtle  difference  of  atmosphere.  It  is  not  the 
calm,  beautiful  dignity  of  space  and  rest  that 
hovers  over  the  homes  of  the  very  wealthy ;  it  is 
not  the  cheery,  homelike  dark  of  more  modest 
dwellings  where  one  has  but  to  draw  a  blind  to 
let  forth  a  flood  of  light  from  some  innocently 
crowded  parlor. 

This  darkness  through  which  Jameson  strode 
was  the  fetid  gloom  of  saloons,  of  mistaken  peo- 
ple, of  probable  sharp  commotions,  terminating 

285 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

in  unhappy  crimes.  Yet  it  was  near  this  district 
that  San  Francisco  started  its  social  growth. 
Here  was  once  the  drawing-room  of  our  youth- 
ful city.  There  are  many  evidences  of  this  past 
still  in  existence;  here  are  dwellings  with  the  dig- 
nity of  age  on  them,  and  justly  proud  are  we  all 
of  these  time-marked  structures,  built  back  in  the 
"  fifties  "  some  time  ! 

There  are  longer  histories,  but  this  young  one 
is  writ  full  of  deeds  and  promises. 

Jameson  strode  on  toward  the  hospital  on  this 
hill.  Below  all,  on  the  dark,  quiet  bay,  lay  great 
ships  laden  with  many  cargoes  that  plied  between 
busy  ports.  One  can  catch  the  salt  whiff  of  the 
sea  at  the  recollection,  and  then  one's  senses  play 
with  one,  and  produce  this  metaphor.  From 
this  lonely  building  also  go  forth  careful  skiffs  of 
occasions,  toward  a  harbor  of  which  no  man 
knows.  Let  us  trust  that  the  voyagers  will  not 
be  disappointed,  that  somewhere  may  be  found 
those  treasures  not  purchaseable  at  our  earthly 

marts. 

"  Rest,  rest  for  the  weary, 

Peace,  peace  for  the  soul." 

Jameson  had  struck  out  from  the  journal  build- 
ing blindly,  but  with  all  the  unerring  instinct  of 
those  without  sight.  He  headed  toward  the  hos- 
pital ;  he  wanted  to  get  there. 

He  did  not  know  what  he  had  said  to  young 
286 


Not  on  the  Hospital  Staff 

Brown,  but  they  had  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
room  a  moment,  face  to  face,  and  then  he  was  out 
on  the  street,  walking,  with  the  recollection  that 
before  he  had  seen  the  last  of  this  Benedict,  Brown 
had  seated  himself  at  the  piled-up  desk  and  com- 
menced working. 

There  was  no  worry  after  that  about  the  office. 
All  Jameson  heard,  all  he  grasped,  all  he  compre- 
hended was  that  sentence  which  Brown  had  said, 
just  before  they  had  separated. 

"  Her  name  is  Ludwiga,  Ludwiga  Strong." 

He  had  said,  "  I  want  to  go  to  her ;  she  is 
the  good  woman  of  my  life." 

He  had  not  grasped  what  Brown  thought 
about  him,  but  once  in  the  heavy  gloom,  Jame- 
son imagined  what  Brown  would  say  to  himself 
about  it.  When  we  know  people  very  well,  it  is 
the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world  to  follow 
their  train  of  thoughts  on  various  subjects.  It  is 
a  sequence  of  unity  in  friendship. 

"  I  wonder  why  he  did  n't  marry  her !  "  and 
for  once  Brown  really  had  ceased  being  an  autom- 
aton and  had  looked  up  for  one  brief  second. 
He  was  not  the  capable  young  business  man  then, 
but  the  tender  husband  of  his  "  good  woman." 

"  I  wonder  why  he  did  not  marry  her,"  Brown 
said.  "  It  is  so  simple,  just  being  happy." 

Mrs.  Brown  sat  watching  over  their  little  child, 
but  the  tall  man  stumbled  on  in  the  darkness. 

287 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

He  felt  that  he  and  Ludwiga  had  done  wrong. 
They  had  read  life's  message  wrongly.  They 
had  trusted  to  reason  for  an  answer  to  the  heart. 
Life  itself  is  the  only  thing  that  supplies  it. 
Marriage  is  the  only  sacred  solution  of  our  sane 
need  for  some  other  person.  After  this  step, 
affairs  seem  to  come  right  of  their  own  accord,  if 
it  is  the  divine  union.  If  it  is  not,  there  is  still 
great  power  in  our  hands  to  shape  the  clay  after 
the  divine  model  and  out  of  failure  bring  to  God, 
success. 

Young  people  should  remember  this.  The 
divorce  court  is  not  the  only  solution  for  unhappy 
marriages  or  for  uncongenial  people.  We  are 
not  without  certain  chisels  of  our  own  ;  and  with 
time  and  patient  strokes,  any  two  stones  may  be 
made  to  grow  very  like  each  other. 

Jameson  walked  on  toward  Ludwiga.  The 
night  spoke  to  him  as  it  had  never  spoken  before. 
Nature  became  a  near  and  consoling  friend.  Once 
he  wandered  from  the  right  track ;  but  during 
those  moments  time  did  not  seem  lost,  but  he 
himself  benefited. 

He  did  not  feel  that  the  girl  would  die.  He 
loved  her  as  he  had  never  loved  her  in  those  shy, 
strange  days  of  courtship.  She  was  no  longer  an 
ideal  to  him,  but  the  helpful,  helpless  woman 
whom  he  wanted  for  his  wife. 

He  could  not  do  without  love,  now  that  he 
288 


Not  on  the  Hospital  Staff 

once  knew  love.  He  was  not  different  from 
other  men.  He  was  like  Julian,  like  Brown, 
like  all  other  men  in  the  office.  He  wanted  to 
work  all  day  and  go  toward  home  in  the  evening. 
He  was  pleased  at  the  change  in  himself.  He 
was  deeply,  warmly,  wholly  happy,  even  in  his 
grief.  He  loved  her,  and  he  wanted  her  to  live. 
Once  the  grave  alternative  appeared  to  him. 
After  a  long  pause,  he  cried,  "  She  will  not 
die." 

There  are  but  few  natures  brave  and  strong 
enough  to  attain  great  heights  by  mere  self-reli- 
ance. These  are  like  rockets,  going  up,  up  alone, 
to  break  into  fine,  visible,  vivid  lights  when  they 
are  nearest  heaven ;  but  with  the  majority  of  us 
there  is  needed  the  stimulus,  the  unity  of  love 
and  home.  Influence  then  is  not  so  wonderful, 
so  comet-like,  but  like  a  call,  sweet,  passing 
understanding,  as  we  step  from  some  humble 
hearthstone  strong  into  a  weak  world. 

Jameson  came  in  sight  of  this  quiet  home  of 
the  sick  at  last.  It  lay  large,  very  large  in  the 
dark ;  for  it  meant  a  great  deal  to  him.  At  the 
door  he  paused,  although  he  had  not  meant  to 
do  so. 

He  stood  almost  stupidly  before  it. 

"  Don't  let  her  die,"  Brown  had  said.  "  If 
she  lies  like  a  saint  on  some  marble  tomb  in  an 
Italian  cathedral,  fight,  pray,  don't  yield  ;  hold 
'9  289 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

on.  She  used  to  pray  to  the  hearts  of  men. 
She  was  a  sort  of  heathen.  Pray  back  to  hers. 
God  will  come  later.  Say  we  need  her  here, 
Jameson." 

Jameson  stood  before  the  door,  then  his  lips 
moved  in  prayer.  He  had  not  prayed  for  years, 
but  there  are  times  when  we  are  not  self-sufficient. 
"  O  Lord,  save  Thy  servant." 

Then  he  stepped  toward  the  building,  and  a 
second  later,  a  sleepy-eyed  attendant  had  arisen 
and  closed  the  door. 

Toward  four  in  the  morning  a  nurse  entered 
on  her  noiseless  rounds,  going  directly  to  Lud- 
wiga's  quiet  figure  on  its  narrow  cot.  The  act 
aroused  Jameson  in  the  old  manner.  He  did 
not  know  much  about  such  things,  but  all  men 
know  more  or  less  of  woman  nature.  At  any 
rate,  the  man's  weary  brain  was  awakened  to  a 
semi-positive  comment.  "  If  she  were  not  a 
nurse,"  he  thought,  "  she  would  have  re-arranged 
the  shade  on  the  lamp ;  she  would  have  trifled  a 
little  over  the  medicine  table;  she  would  have 
even  dropped  on  her  knees  and  prayed  before 
she  looked  at  that  face  on  the  pillow." 

He  watched  the  woman.  What  she  might 
utter  after  that  experienced  gaze  would  be  power- 
ful in  determining  his  future,  but  he  could  not 
seek  that  speech.  After  a  while  she  left  the  room. 

290 


Not  on  the  Hospital  Staff 

Until  she  left,  he  did  not  realize  how  much  he 
had  wanted  to  hear  her  words,  how  desperately 
alive  he  had  been  to  even  an  unfavorable  opinion. 

Then  time  began  to  pass  again,  just  as  it  had 
before  the  woman  entered.  Brown  had  told  him 
that  the  crisis  was  to  occur  between  twelve  and 
dawn.  It  was  then  four,  so  the  man  went  back 
to  his  vigil  dully.  He  saw  the  same  outline  as 
before,  he  noted  the  increasing  gentleness  of  her 
respiration,  he  himself  arose  once  and  re-arranged 
the  shade  and  toyed  with  some  articles  on  the 
table,  either  because  his  surmise  had  been  true  or 
he  was  responding  to  his  last  conscious  reasoning. 

Before  he  reached  the  bed,  the  same  nurse 
came  in,  clad  in  the  habit  of  her  order.  Emo- 
tion had  been  spent  or  suspended  in  her  breast, 
and  he  felt  that  she  looked  with  quiet  wonder  on 
the  struggle  in  his  face  for  life.  Perhaps  it  meant 
a  great  stormy  sea  to  her,  and  he  and  this  young 
girl  who  was  dying  were  unaware  when  Provi- 
dence reached  forth  a  saving  hand.  He  could 
have  smiled  a  little  heart-brokenly  at  it. 

"  I  came  back  to  tell  you  that  the  crisis  is  to 
occur  soon,  between  now  and  five,"  she  announced. 
"  I  feared  you  might  need  me.  Shall  I  stay,  or 
will  you  ring  ?  " 

"  No,  do  not  stay,"  he  answered, "  unless  there 
is  something  I  cannot  do." 

The  woman  went  once  more  to  the  bedside, 
291 


The  Siege  of  Youth 

looking  down  at  the  sleeper's  face.  After  touch- 
ing the  nerveless  hand  gently,  she  stepped  back 
to  where  the  man  was  standing.  He  could  not 
read  hope  or  loss,  only  faith,  in  the  serene  eyes 
she  turned  on  him. 

"  You  might  pray,"  she  suggested,  and  then 
stole  quietly  from  the  room. 

Death  did  not  mean  leaving  the  world  to  such 
women.  It  was  an  abstract  state.  Left  to  him- 
self, Jameson  continued  the  prayerless,  hopeless, 
prayerful  combat  he  had  been  conducting  all 
night : 

"  O  despairer,  here  is  my  neck, 

By  God,  you  shall  not  go  down  !  hang  your  whole  weight 
upon  me. 

"  I  dilate  you  with  tremendous  breath,  I  buoy  you  up, 
Every  room  of  the  house  do  I  fill  with  an  arm'd  force, 
Lovers  of  me,  bafflers  of  graves." 

There  were  moments  when  he  felt  triumphant ; 
there  was  one  when  he  gave  up  altogether.  It 
was  when  Brown  came  in  at  five. 

Brown  found  the  girl,  the  man,  and  a  crucifix 
on  the  wall  growing  more  distinct  out  of  darkness, 
deep  bas-reliefs  all.  The  girl  lay  on  her  bed,  and 
the  man  sat  with  his  hand  on  her  pillow,  as  if 
afraid  to  stir.  He  was  watching  a  smile  on  her 
face.  In  the  long  watches  of  the  night  he  had 
waited  for  this  moment.  It  was  a  strange  smile. 

292 


Not  on  the  Hospital  Staff 

It  seemed  to  contain  the  calm  of  death  and  form 
a  link  between  the  great  stages  of  soul  existence. 
She  had  always  smiled,  and  this  last  grace  of  lip 
was  forming  a  triumphant  prelude  to  Eternity. 

Brown's  glance  took  in  the  man's  rigid  frame 
and  the  gray  lines  across  his  forehead.  Then 
Brown  approached  the  cot  with  the  same  direct- 
ness that  the  nurse  had,  —  not  professional  direct- 
ness though,  more  the  step  of  a  man  who  was 
rearing  his  little  family  and  had  stood  ever  first 
between  them  and  recurring  griefs. 

In  this  same  manner  he  bent  over  the  girl  a 
second. 

"  How  long  do  you  think  ?  "  Jameson  tried  to 
ask.  Brown  half  turned,  then  Jameson  caught 
the  joy  in  his  face. 

"  Oh,  can't  you  see  ?  —  it  is  life>  man  !  "  Brown 
cried. 

The  smile  stayed,  and  after  a  while  it  seemed  to 
form  a  link  between  the  girl  and  her  lover. 


293 


By  the  Author  of  The  Siege  of  Youth 
In  the  Country  God  Forgot.  A  Story  of  To-day. 

By  FRANCES  CHARLES,  author  of  "The  Siege  of  Youth." 
1 2  mo.     Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

A  strong,  original,  virile  story  of  the  Southwest,  —  an  American 
novel  which  will  appeal  to  East  and  West  alike.  The  hate  of  a  rich 
old  farmer  for  his  only  son,  the  joy  of  young  love,  the  happy  inno- 
cence of  childhood,  the  pangs  of  remorse,  tender  pathos  and  subtle 
humor  are  all  worked  skilfully  into  a  brilliant  novel. 

The  Boston  Daily  Advertiser  says  it  "  discloses  a  new  writer  of  un- 
common power  "  ;  and  the  Louisville  Courier  Journal  that  "  Arizona 
was  never  more  truthfully  depicted." 

The  great  strength  of  the  book  is  well  described  by  the  New  York 
Commercial  Advertiser •,  which  says :  "  At  intervals  so  far  between  that 
they  stand  out  like  pleasant  landmarks  along  a  lengthy  course  of  dull 
reading  one  comes  across  a  book  by  a  new  author  which  in  the  open- 
ing pages  grips  the  attention  and  reveals  a  conscious  strength,  a  sure- 
ness  of  touch,  that  commend  it  to  careful  consideration.  This  story 
by  Frances  Charles  is  a  book  of  this  quality.  It  is  essentially  a 
rugged  book.  It  possesses  a  compelling  power  which  forces  the 
reader  to  continue  to  the  end." 

The  Boston  Courier  says :  "  The  literary  value  of  the  novel  '  In  the 
Country  God  Forgot '  will  give  it  a  permanence  which  not  one  in  a 
hundred  of  the  tales  of  adventure  with  which  the  counters  of  the 
booksellers  are  crowded  to-day  can  hope  to  attain.  \Ve  speak  of  its 
literary  value  first  because  especially  of  the  style  of  the  author,  which 
challenges  attention  in  the  first  page,  provokes  expostulation  as  the 
reader  goes  on,  and  finally  compels  admiration,  fascinates,  and  inevit- 
ably leads  to  re-reading  and  clearer  appreciation." 

A  stirring,  vivid  tale,  full  of  life  and  action,  with  a  strong  sentiment 
and  an  evident  first-hand  knowledge  by  the  author  of  the  scenes  and 
characters  presented.  The  hot,  dry  atmosphere  of  the  territory,  the 
sordid,  cruel  selfishness  of  the  wealthy  ranch-owner  who  has  a  "  cor- 
ner" on  the  water  supply,  the  developing  love  story,  the  progress  of 
the  tale  to  a  dramatic  climax  when  a  certain  mystery  of  birth  is  solved, 
form  the  basic  elements  of  a  novel  which  is  entitled  to  a  high  place 
in  current  literature. —  Washington  Star, 


Little,  Brown,  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 

The  Siege  of  Youth.  By  FRANCES  CHARLES,  author 
of  "  In  the  Country  God  Forgot."  Illustrated.  i2mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

This  is  a  story  of  the  present  day,  and  its  scene  is  San  Francisco,  the 
author's  home.  It  deals  with  art,  with  journalism,  and  with  human 
nature,  and  its  love  episodes  are  charming  and  true  to  life.  The 
three  women  characters  of  the  book  are  finely  drawn  and  contrasted, 
there  is  much  local  color  in  the  story,  and  a  great  deal  of  bright  and 
epigrammatic  writing.  The  author's  previous  book,  "  In  the  Coun- 
try God  Forgot,"  has  been  received  with  the  utmost  favor.  The 
Boston  Daily  Advertiser  says  it  "  discloses  a  new  writer  of  uncommon 
power." 

Barbara,  a  Woman  of  the  West.    By  JOHN 

H.  WHITSON.     Illustrated  by  Chase  Emerson.     i2mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

A  distinctively  American  novel,  dealing  with  life  in  the  far  West,  and 
in  many  ways  remarkable,  with  a  novel  plot  and  unusual  situations. 
The  scenes  of  the  story  are  a  Western  ranch,  Cripple  Creek,  and 
the  City  of  San  Diego.  The  heroine,  Barbara,  is  the  loyal  wife  of  a 
somewhat  self-centred  man  of  literary  tastes,  Roger  Timberly,  living 
on  a  ranch  in  Kansas.  Barbara's  long  and  patient  quest  for  her  hus- 
band, who  has  gone  to  Cripple  Creek  to  visit  a  mine,  the  means  which 
she  adopts  to  support  herself,  the  ardor  with  which  she  is  wooed  by 
Gilbert  Bream,  and  the  complications  which  ensue  are  extremely 
interesting. 

The  Shadow  of  the  Czar.  By  JOHN  R.  CARLING. 
Illustrated.  i2mo.  Decorated  cloth,  $1.50.  Fifth 
Edition. 

An  engrossing  romance  of  the  sturdy,  wholesome  sort,  in  which  the 
action  is  never  allowed  to  drag,  best  describes  this  popular  novel. 
"The  Shadow  of  the  Czar"  is  a  stirring  story  of  the  romantic  attach- 
ment of  a  dashing  English  officer  for  Princess  Barbara,  of  the  old 
Polish  Principality  of  Czernova,  and  the  conspiracy  of  the  Duke  of 
Bora,  aided  by  Russia,  to  dispossess  the  princess  of  her  throne. 


Brown,  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 


The  Dominant  Strain.  A  Novel.  By  ANNA  CHAPIN 
RAY,  author  of  "  Teddy,  her  Book,"  etc.  Illustrated 
in  color  by  Harry  C.  Edwards.  i2mo.  Decorated 
cloth,  $1.50. 

Anna  Chapin  Ray's  new  novel  has  for  its  hero  Cotton  Mather  Thayer, 
whose  father  was  a  Boston  blueblood,  and  whose  mother  was  a  Rus- 
sian musician.  The  latter  gave  to  him  his  musical  temperament,  and 
the  title  of  the  book  suggests  the  author's  main  motif  —  the  warring 
strains,  Puritan  and  Slav,  in  her  hero.  The  central  idea  is  the  mis- 
take a  woman  makes  who  attempts  to  reform  a  man  after  marriage. 
Beatrix  Dane,  the  heroine  of  the  book,  discovers  during  her  engage- 
ment that  Lorimer,  her  lover,  has  an  inherited  appetite  for  drink,  but 
from  a  mistaken  sense  of  duty  does  not  break  her  troth,  and  her  inti- 
mate friends  shrink  from  any  interference.  Much  of  the  novel  has  a 
decidedly  musical  atmosphere,  and  the  attitude  of  some  portions  of 
New  York  society  toward  musical  people  is  well  described. 

A  Detached  Pirate.  By  HELEN  MILECETE.  Illus- 
trated in  color  by  I.  H.  Caliga.  i2mo.  Decorated 
cloth,  ^1.50. 

A  misunderstanding,  a  divorce,  and  a  reconciliation  furnish  the  theme 
of  this  bright,  clever,  witty,  society  novel.  The  events  occur  in 
London,  in  Halifax  and  its  garrison,  and  in  New  York ;  and  the  story 
is  told  by  Gay  Vandeleur,  a  very  charming  heroine.  The  book  will 
entertain  and  delight  all  who  read  it. 

The  Pharaoh  and  the  Priest.    Translated  from 

the  original  Polish  of  ALEXANDER  GLOVATSKI,  by  JERE- 
MIAH CURTIN.  Illustrated.  12 mo.  Decorated  cloth, 
|i.5o.  Fifth  Edition. 

A  powerful  portrayal  of  Ancient  Egypt  in  the  eleventh  century  before 
Christ  is  this  novel  in  which  Alexander  Glovatski  has  vividly  de- 
picted the  pitiless  struggle  between  the  pharaoh  and  the  priesthood 
for  supremacy.  "  Here  is  a  historical  novel  in  the  best  sense,"  says 
the  New  York  Commercial  Advertiser,  "  a  novel  which  makes  a  van- 
ished civilization  live  again." 


Little,  Brown,  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 


Love  Thrives  in  War.  A  Romance  of  the  Frontier 
in  1812.  By  MARY  CATHERINE  CROWLEY,  author  of 
"A  Daughter  of  New  France,"  "The  Heroine  of  the 
Strait,"  etc.  Illustrated  by  Clyde  O.  De  Land.  1 2mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  surrender  of  General  Howe  and  his  American  army  to  the  British 
and  their  Indian  allies  under  Tecumseh,  and  other  stirring  events  of 
the  War  of  1812  form  the  historical  background  of  Miss  Crowley's 
latest  romance.  The  reader's  interest  is  at  once  centered  in  the 
heroine,  Laurente  Macintosh,  a  pretty  and  coquettish  Scotch  girl. 
The  many  incidents  which  occur  in  the  vicinity  of  Detroit  are  related 
with  skill  and  grace.  The  characters,  real  and  fictitious,  are  strongly 
contrasted.  Miss  Crowley's  new  romance  is  strongly  imaginative  and 
picturesquely  written,  wholesome,  inspiring,  and  absorbing. 

The  Wars  of  Peace.  By  A.  F.  WILSON.  Illustrated 
by  H.  C.  Ireland.  12 mo.  Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

A  strong  and  skilfully  constructed  novel  upon  a  subject  of  the  great- 
est importance  and  interest  at  the  present  time,  — "  Trusts  "  and 
their  consequences.  Albion  Hardy,  a  successful  and  immensely  am- 
bitious financier,  organizes  an  industrial  combination  which  causes 
much  suffering  and  disaster,  and  eventually  alienates  his  only  son, 
who,  declining  to  enter  the  "  Trust,"  withdraws  his  capital  from  his 
father's  business,  and  buys  a  small  mill  and  attempts  to  manage  it 
according  to  his  own  ideas.  The  account  of  the  destruction  of 
Theodore  Hardy's  mill,  and  his  rescue,  is  dramatic,  vivid,  and 
thrilling. 

The  Queen  of  Quelparte.  By  ARCHER  B.HULBERT. 
Illustrated  by  Winfield  S.  Lukens.  12  mo.  Decorated 
cloth,  $1.50.  Second  Edition. 

This  stirring  and  fantastic  romance  of  the  far  East  has  for  its  chief 
motive  a  Russian  intrigue  to  throw  Quelparte,  an  island  province  of 
Korea,  into  the  hands  of  Japan  as  a  sop  for  the  possession  of  Port 
Arthur  by  the  Czar,  and  the  efforts  of  the  Chinese  directed  by  Prince 
Tuen,  to  prevent  it.  There  is  a  charming  love  story  running  through 
the  novel,  the  hero  being  Robert  Martyn,  an  American  in  the  employ 
of  a  Russian  diplomat,  and  the  heroine  is  the  latter's  daughter. 


Little,  Brown,  and  Co.'s  New  Novels 

A  Rose  of  Normandy.  By  WILLIAM  R.  A.  WILSON. 
Illustrated  by  Ch.  Grunvvald.  1 2 mo.  Decorated  cloth, 
$1.50. 

A  most  entertaining  historical  romance  of  France  and  Canada  in  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIV.  Robert  Cavelier,  Sieur  de  la  Salle,  and  his 
faithful  lieutenant,  Henri  de  Tonti,  are  leading  characters,  the  latter 
being  the  hero  of  the  book.  The  explorations  of  La  Salle,  his  hard- 
ships and  adventures,  the  love  of  Tonti  for  Renee,  the  "  Rose  of 
Normandy,"  their  escapes  from  the  Indians,  and  other  adventures, 
make  up  a  story  which  the  author  has  told  with  great  spirit. 

The  Spoils  of  Empire.  A  Romance  of  the  Old 
World  and  the  New.  By  FRANCIS  NEWTON  THORPE, 
author  of  "  The  Constitutional  History  of  the  United 
States,"  etc.  Illustrated  by  Frank  B.  Masters.  i2mo. 
Decorated  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  Spanish  Inquisition  and  the  wondrous  splendor  and  power  of 
Mexico  in  the  time  of  Montezuma  furnish  the  rich  historical  back- 
ground of  this  brilliant  and  absorbing  romance.  The  conquest  of 
Mexico  by  the  adventurous  Spaniards  is  vividly  described ;  and  the 
passion  of  Juan  Estoval,  a  follower  of  Cortez,  for  the  beautiful  Aztec 
princess,  Dorothea,  the  daughter  of  Montezuma,  furnishes  a  tender 
and  charming  love  story. 

Sarah  Tuldon.  A  Woman  Who  Had  Her  Way.  By 
ORME  AGNUS,  author  of  "  Love  in  Our  Village,"  "Jan 
Oxber,"  etc.  Illustrated.  12010.  Decorated  cloth, 
£1.50. 

A  remarkable  study  of  an  English  peasant  girl  of  strong  character 
who  was  developed  by  the  circumstances  of  her  life  into  a  fine,  noble- 
hearted,  and  generous  woman.  Sarah  Tuldon  is  a  very  unusual,  origi- 
nal, and  racy  type  of  character,  and  outside  of  Thomas  Hardy's  books 
there  is  no  such  realistic  study  of  conditions  which  exist  in  England 
to-day  among  the  laborers,  as  that  given  in  the  pages  of  this  story. 
The  author  has  genuine  humor  and  pathos  and  great  dramatic  skill. 


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